Faith
by Derpula
Summary: After Bald Bull's defeat, only one man stands between Mac and his shot at the champ's belt. Super Macho Man is next - & the Bronxite soon realizes there's more that can shake him than being on the receiving end of Macho's jaw-breaking clothesline punch. COMPLETE.
1. WVBA Press Conference

_"This is one of those fairy tale stories you don't hear too often, folks."_

_"Here we have a young, spirited scrapper from the Bronx who, until a couple of years ago, was an unknown in the WVBA world. Since then, he has climbed the ranks to claim the minor and major circuit belts and win the hearts of thousands across America. There's no doubt about it, it's been a long road, every bit of it arduous."_

_Before the start of his boxing career, sources tell me he was eking out a living juggling jobs as a paper boy and pizza delivery boy. Isn't that something? While others kids hang around arcades and watch movies, he was busy working to pay the rent. Poor kid. Somehow, he found the time to train at former heavyweight champ Jerome Louis's gym every evening, and found his calling in the ring, fighting in small establishments for cash. He approached two hundred – you heard that right – two hundred managers, and was turned down by each and every one. Then at last, he lucked out when Louis gave the boy a chance. He must have seen the sparkle in this kid's eyes and the fierceness of his determination - - and the rest, as they say, is history."_

_"At the age of seventeen, he has accomplished things the likes of which most people only dream of. He may be small, but he has great heart."_

Cameras flashed erratically, microphones thrusting at him from all directions.

_"Mac – Super Macho Man allegedly has said that your up and coming match with him is a joke. What are your thoughts?"_

_"After the World Circuit, what's next?"_

The young man blinked, somewhat overwhelmed by all the reporters vying for his attention; He then looked to Doc, hesitant, searching.

Doc sat back, his manner friendly in an avuncular way when he gently inclined his head as if to say, 'Go ahead, son.' With everyone talking over Mac or speaking for him all evening – that latter being something which Doc knew he had been guilty of - it was time he stepped back and let the kid handle the questions himself.

Mac cracked a smile tinged with awkwardness. Though his hair was disheveled and he looked as if he hadn't gotten much sleep, his eyes were bright with enthusiasm. "I, uh..."

Leaning closer towards one of the microphones, his answer came through distinctly clear. "I'm just gonna try my hardest, y'know? I got this far… and I know that with Doc's help, I can do it."

_"Jerome 'Doc' Louis has been with you every step of the way…"_

"He has, yeah." Mac nodded seriously. "...Wouldn't have gotten nowhere if it weren't for Doc. I'm real lucky to have a trainer like him."

_"…Mac! How does it feel to be going up against Super Macho Man for the #2 spot in the World Circuit?"_

_"Where are your parents, kid?"_

Faltering, the boy gazed unseeingly into the crowd, into the flashing lights and expectant faces with honest eyes. His lips parted slightly, then pressed thin, and at last, his smile returned. But it wasn't quite the same. A breathless chuckle escaped him. "It… it feels pretty damn good."

Light laughter rippled through the crowd. And at ease with the response, a near-imperceptible tension lifted from Mac's shoulders.


	2. 2

At dawn, Mac slapped his alarm clock quiet and lay in bed for a moment longer, just breathing while his mind churned. A pale, gray light filtered through the blinds and fell in stripes over him and over the mess of magazines and empty cans over a footstool nearby. He blinked up at the collage of clippings pasted on the ceiling through puffy eyes barely open more than a crack. There were cuts-outs of cars, some of arcade cabinets, a family photo and another of Doc in his prime. And then the article of last week's press conference, the edges of which he noticed were curling. He'd have to tape it back up.

Moaning softly, he threw an arm over his face. Tempting as it was to burrow back into his pillow and sleep like the dead for at least another couple of hours, he knew he wouldn't. He would drag himself out of bed as he did every morning, rain, or shine. And he'd run.

Eventually.

Still half-asleep, he puttered around his apartment in a tee and boxers, rolling the kinks out of his shoulders and shaking the leaden feeling out of his arms, exhaling in heavy puffs. His body felt thick, his skin aching with tiredness. It was a challenge willing himself just to brush his teeth and run a comb through his hair. While rolling up the tube to squeeze the last of his toothpaste out, he made a mental note to pick up more later.

_"Aw, ma! Do I have to?"_

_"How can you even ask something like that? I won't have my boy be dirty. You never know who you might meet when you're out!"_

As far as breakfast went, Mac didn't much like loitering in the kitchen, let alone eating at a table not all that much larger than an end table. It had been long enough since he had woken up to the smell of something nice and sat down with others to a meal already served for him; something he long-since realized he had taken for granted when he was younger. The novelty of living on his own, being able to shovel his food down and not have to excuse his poor manners had worn out pretty quickly. Shortly after moving in he had made the habit of eating near the TV, sometimes turning up the volume and shutting his eyes for a moment to appreciate the sound of voices that filled the room. Although the banging of the neighbour against the wall had a way of shattering the illusion of having company.

The extent of his knowledge of cooking from scratch was to prepare eggs – scrambled, sunny side up, what have you - with the addition of overly crisp bacon every so often as a nice little treat. Eggs were inexpensive and could hold him a good while. They weren't half bad with a dollop of ketchup, either. But this morning he passed on them and a bowl of cereal, gulping down a glass of orange juice instead and cramming a slice of toast into his mouth, keeping it there to free up his hands. Within half a minute, he had tugged on his sweatsuit and stepped out of his apartment, pocketing the keys.

This was his favourite time of day to jog. Now, when it was still quiet, and late in the evening when dumpy and gutted buildings with chipping, fading brickwork hid in darkness and the Manhattan skyline lit up across the water, glittering like Christmas.

The rain-slickened street shimmered, his worn shoes slapping over shallow puddles. He started at a light and easy pace, always. And once his body quit whining and accepted the fact that he wasn't going to curl back into bed anytime soon, he felt weightlessness and a tireless determination take hold of him and could pretend he was trying to keep up with Doc's cycling, driving himself harder. His panting breaths misted silver in the air.

It felt good. He felt good. The kind of 'good' that came in dropping negative emotions at the door of the gym and fiercely pummeling punching bags and hefting weights and skipping rope until he was drenched in sweat, unaware of the hours melting away until Doc would lay a kindly hand over his shoulder and tell him with a half-rueful look that it was time to go home.

Home.

His apartment wasn't really home in the way he thought one should be. There was no laughter, no smiles in greeting, no one to encourage him or congratulate him when he'd step inside after a long day. It was just someplace to stay warm and lay down to rest, waiting for night to pass.

The husk of an old, gutted car whipped past in his peripheral vision.

Well, he was lucky enough to have that, he mused.


	3. 3

A middle-aged man was sitting behind the counter, nose buried in a newspaper, when the door chimes jangled. He craned his neck over the paper, cocking an eyebrow. Like hell he'd let some other delinquent make off with a bag of chips. But, as soon as he saw who it was, his shrewd features softened and a smile curled his mustached mouth.

"Well, look who it is." He said, folding the paper up and tucking away his round pair of reading glasses.

"Hey, Mr. J."

Pushing to his feet with a grunt, the man leaned forward and spread his hands across the counter, his fingers thick and knotted at the joints. "So what'll it be, champ? The usual?"

Mac ruffled his hoodie-flattened hair, absently eying rows of candy bars in shiny wrappers. After an especially long session at the gym earlier in the afternoon that had wrung all the sweat out of him, he was starving. "Heh, well, I ain't the champ yet."

"Better get used to hearing it, kid," Reaching for a paper bag, the shop clerk snapped it open, filling it with several sticks of beef jerky, some tinned soup, and a can of root beer. "'cause you will be soon. This big shot Macho guy from Hollywood?" He grimaced. "I watched the conference last week on television, and the guy's a complete joke. Just look at 'im."

The newspaper was tossed onto the counter and Mac turned it around to read, taking in the photo of Super Macho Man flexing a bulging bicep and flashing his most toothy, winning smirk.

"He's primping and preening himself in front of the cameras like some kind of peacock, just eating it all up." The man said. "The guy's so oiled up, he doesn't walk down the street, he glides."

Mac couldn't help chuckling. "Hey, I think I remember a line kinda like that from that Outsiders movie. Ever see that?"

The shop clerk waved a hand dismissively. "Listen Mac, you'll knock this sucker's gold tooth right out of that big mouth of his and be up against that Sandman from Philly in no time."

"Y'think so...? Oh, uh, actually I'll pass on the root beer. Water's better for me n' all. Gotta treat my body right before the match, y'know?"

Removing the can of pop, Mr. Johnson paused, giving the teen a scrutinizing frown. "Don't tell me you're worried about this guy."

"Who?"

"Super Macho _whatever-his-name-is_."

Mac shrugged his shoulders, breaking eye contact as he slanted his gaze downwards. He regretted expressing the slightest measure of uncertainty. "Nah. I mean, I ain't real worried, but he's beaten Bald Bull n' all. That ain't easy."

Mac had emerged from his bout with the Turk tasting the coppery tang of blood in his mouth and fighting to breathe, his left eyelid shiny, purple, and grotesquely swollen. Wobbly from more than the adrenaline and half-blinded by the cameras blinking all around him, he must have passed out, for the next thing he knew, he was in a hospital room with Doc at his side, being told by a doctor that he had broken a few ribs and that he was lucky they hadn't punctured his lungs.

Having been somewhat illness-prone as a child, suffering appendicitis, tonsillitis and some other kind of _-itis_, he was acquainted enough with hospitals to keenly dislike the restlessness and loneliness of lying in a drably plain room unable to do much of anything, long stretches of boredom occasionally interrupted by a nurse offering a professional smile, or his mother rushing to his bedside, cooing and stroking and kissing his forehead while his father stood half-awkwardly at a distance, his hands in his pockets.

It was different with Doc. During his post-match convalescence several months ago, Mac remembered chuckling until tears sprung to his eyes and he had to brace his side with a pillow, begging Doc in a wheezy voice not to crack any more jokes or share ridiculous anecdotes. ("Please, Doc, y'killin' me.") But the former heavyweight champ had come prepared to bolster his protege's spirit and laughed with him until a nurse had come in, scowling at the noise, and asked Mac if the man had been bothering him. Doc had even smuggled him a chocolate bar and let him have it - and Mac knew how much those meant to him.

His mother - bless her heart, Mac mused - would have burst into tears at the sight of her_ poor baby_ battered and bruised by Bald Bull, torn between scolding him in hushed, broken tones and smothering him with love.

"Yeah, and you did too," Mr. Johnson said, jabbing a finger at the young man almost disapprovingly. Mac blinked with fresh awareness, somewhat startled from his thoughts. "And don't you forget it, kid. Bald Bull... now _there_ was a _real_ fighter." After a moment, the clerk shook his head lightly. "This Macho guy has to have given the big Turk a nice wad of dough to pull his punches. That's the kind of shady stuff people with a lot of money to throw do, you know. Now, you? Y'got this bagged, kid - no contest. Show this chump what we're made of."

A reassured smirk quirked the corners of Mac's lips. "Thanks." A mildly awkward silence followed and he rubbed the back of his neck. "Say, d'you have any more of that chocolate milk that comes in the blue carton?"

"You running errands for Louis again?" The shop clerk laughed as he made for the refrigerated area towards the back of the store.

"Yeah." Mac stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sweat suit and looked about the place, rocking lightly on his heels. In all his years of dropping by the corner store, nothing had really changed. Same old look, same old arcade cabinets, and they still had those delicious gummies in the shape of cola bottles. "But it don't bother me none."

"How's he doing, anyway?" Mr. Johnson asked as he returned to the counter and bagged the milk. "Pushing you too hard? That'll be five fifty."

Cracking a lopsided grin, the teen handed him six dollars, gathering up the crinkled paper bag in his arms. "Nah. Just hard enough."

"So when're you flying out to Hollywood?"

"Real early tomorrow mornin'... Doc and I're gonna meet up around three n' then head to LaGuardia airport."

"Yeah?" The cash register's coin slot rang open, and sifting around, Mr. Johnson dropped the change into the teen's upturned palm. Mac hefted the coins, tempted to burn the jingling quarters on the Pacman game in the corner, but reconsidered. It was best not to keep Doc waiting.

"Thanks." He said, turning on his heel and starting for the door only to jerk to a halt after he peered into the bag. "Uh, Mr. J, you gave me an extra- -"

The clerk settled back into his seat behind the counter with a groan of relief. "I may be getting old, but I ain't stupid." He answered with a scoffing grin before turning his attention back to his newspaper. "...Have a good night, kid."


	4. 4

The heavy door opened with a squeak that carried across the gym as if it were a vaulted chamber. Mac sidled inside. At this hour, the place was closed to all but him. The half of the gym not in use was unlit, the foldable steel chairs piled against the wall, and the floor was being swept in long, slow swishes. The stale odour of sweat and talcum powder hung in the air, vaguely comforting in its familiarity.

"_Gaw thaw miwk y'wahned, Dawk_."

Doc straightened and paused to rest a hand on his hip, the other holding his broom upright. "Son," He chortled, "Do me a favour and chew, swallow, then try that again. Here," he leaned the broom against the nearest wall. "Let me get that bag off your hands."

The teen gave him a sheepish look only made more pathetic with a piece of jerky sticking out of his mouth, grateful when his hands were freed. He had no excuse other than that hunger had been gnawing away at him and thought he could eat and jog and haul heavy groceries at the same time. "Sorry." He wiped a bit of saliva from one corner of his mouth.

"Mmmm-_mm_~." Raising the carton from the bag, Louis studied it as if it were a polished trophy. "Knew I could count on you!"

Mac looked on expectantly, knowing better than to let himself become peevishly impatient with Doc when he'd go dreamy-eyed over chocolate. Everyone had their vices, he reasoned, and in the grand scheme of things this was a small thing to put up with - if he was to put it that way.

Doc had told Mac a few times before that, as a child, he had always had something of a sweet tooth made worse by his generous mother who expressed her doting love by way of spoiling him with treats. But only once had he mentioned that his fondness for chocolate had grown after the loss of his heavyweight championship belt. But while Mac worried on occasion for his trainer's health (the irony of that was lost on him,) he felt he had no right to criticize something Doc eagerly enjoyed, and to some extent, probably conditioned himself into needing on an emotional level. He had learned all too quickly that even playfully knocking a chocolate bar out of Doc's hand was a sure-fire way of pissing him off. At least Doc could joke about his weakness - which was encouraging - and he had not let it consume his life. After all, he could still cycle and spar with him several times a week, more often if a match was just around the corner - and Mac could not have asked for a more dedicated trainer working with him to improve his footwork, his form, and his endurance.

"Huh? Oh." At last, guiltily self-aware, Louis looked to Mac. "Now, I worked you pretty hard earlier in the day, baby. Think you're up for a little more before we go flyin' to Hollywood?"

The bout was only two nights away and the kid would have been lying had he said he weren't already feeling the adrenaline-jitters, the anxiety bubbling inside him from two weeks ago, given how much more was at stake this time around. But, every day, every hour he commit himself to his training, ducking and weaving and throwing all his strength and heart and youthful ambition into every punch with Doc overseeing him, he'd feel infinitely steadier, calmer, and surer of himself. Meeting his mentor's gaze, he let the readiness in the firm line of his jaw and the burning determination in his eyes speak for him.

There was a moment's hesitation before Louis socked the boy's shoulder, causing him to stumble slightly. " Hahaha, now why'd I even ask? I must be gettin' old!" Then, his voice softening, he added, "Now you finish up that jerky and get changed, kid. I'll go put this stuff away."

Smiling, Mac turned and disappeared.

* * *

><p>Jerome 'Doc' Louis still remembered the day - May 2nd, 1983 - when a gawky kid barely pushing four feet nine inches tall first stepped into his renovated warehouse-turned-gym, looking about apprehensively at the men surrounding him as if he had lost his way. Doc had thought he was in need of directions, perhaps to the arcade across the street - until the boy cautiously approached him, gazing in awe for a moment before half-mumbling something about wanting to purchase a gym membership.<p>

"I-I have money." The kid had said, making a point of digging around into his pockets for a few crumpled bills before half-extending them almost pleadingly.

'Hey! Does your mama know you're here?' Someone had jeered while passing by.

Of anyone looking to avail themselves of the space and practice in his gym, Doc simply demanded three things: that they left any attitude at the door, that they respected the equipment, and that they could keep up with payments for every month they meant to attend. Before then, the youngest aspiring boxer with a gym membership had been seventeen - and here was this fourteen year old who was downright adamant on spending a nice chunk of pocket money on something other than gumballs or sports cards or a nice bike.

Doc had pitied the kid's naivete. Anyone older knew it was wiser to feign uncertainty and haggle for an affordable price than to reveal a strong readiness to pay any stated amount upfront. He felt a tinge of guilt at the prospect of pocketing the kid's money, but business was business, and ultimately, neither pity nor guilt would pay the bills.

"Got thirty five on you, son?"

"Yeah..."

"Give me thirty."

The boy froze, a wide-eyed, puzzled expression stealing across his face. "For real?"

Chuckling, Doc gestured for the money with a beckoning wave of his fingers. "Yeah, _for real_, son, before I change my mind."

In an instant, his face lit up and he cracked a smile, all the anxiety he held seeming to melt away. He had an earnest face, the kind that could be read like a book. "I'm... real grateful, Mr. Louis! Y'won't regret it!"

"Should hope not, kid." The older man laughingly shook his head. "That five bucks could have bought me two chocolate bars."

In the days to follow, the boy had faithfully shown up gloveless, and in a tank top which Doc supposed he wore out of feeling intimidated. When he had not been watching others spar with a mixture of envy and hopeful resolution, he ducked his head, pinning his attention on a punching bag that looked heavier than he did. He kept out of people's way, but the braggarts of the gym gave him trouble nonetheless. In their idler moments, while wiping their grinning faces dry with towels slung over their shoulders, they would snicker and scoff about the kid making a joke of the place. The boy feigned indifference to every disparaging remark - muscles rippling tensely in his clenched jaw - and would pound the bag with dogged fierceness, lashing out at it until conscious thought wore down to nothing and all his anger and frustration leaked out of him from every sweating pore. There was no doubt in Doc's mind that the boy had some fire in his belly, but so did many of the novices thrashing canvas bags and training dummies in his midst. And they had not been handicapped by their height.

Louis focused his attention largely on the happenings in the gym's ring, appraising the techniques unique to every boxer and shouting advice emphatically from the ringside. But on occasion, in between bouts, he would still flick a curious glance in the kid's direction half-expecting for him to drop out early from his month-long commitment. Not out of spite or condescension, but from experience. He had seen all too many young, vibrant fighters beam at the prospect of starting their training only to realize the challenges were steeper than they had imagined. Considering the possibility that the boy had only hung on to get his money's worth for what he had paid for, Doc had decided he would wait a little longer before attempting again to gauge the kid's interest in the sport. It went this way for one week in the second month, then two weeks, until at last, one evening a few minutes short of closing time, Doc wearily dragged a hand across his face and sat up from his chair, finally walking over to him.

"Hey, son," He sighed, knitting his brows. "You're gonna ruin your knuckles that way."

Panting, the boy had paused and lifted his head in quiet attentiveness, his short, dark hair glistening with perspiration. His unwrapped knuckles were deeply bruised, hands damp and shaking from adrenaline and exertion.

"Look " Doc held his gaze steadily. "I've seen you around and I don't know why you don't wear gloves, son. But if you need them, I got a couple old extras in one of the lockers in the change-room. Just take a pair, and when you're done, clean 'em and put 'em back, alright?"

Swallowing, the boy nodded dimly, a flicker of relief in his half-lidded eyes at not having been pressed for an explanation. "Thanks." He breathed, his voice thin and his heart thudding furiously. And then he was left standing there as Doc turned on his heel and walked off.

"Now it's time to go, alright? Y'got five minutes. And ice those hands at home, son."

While they continued to pass each other by, that was the most Doc and Mac had spoken to one another until seven months later. It had been on a Friday evening after Doc had dropped in last-minute at a nearby club doubling as a small boxing venue, looking to scope local talent. Having never learned the boy's name and only carelessly glancing at the advertisement for the evening's fight posted on the door, he struck dumb to see _him_ - that very same dark-haired fourteen year old - enter the ring under the pseudonym, "Little Mac". Opposite him was a fellow small-timer, Mark "The Crusher" Cohen. A full grown man with a shaven head, a tribal tattoo on the left side of his chest, and a neck almost thicker than the kid's thigh. The crowd roared and whistled their approval, beer flowing from the taps of the open bar.

It was insane.

Everywhere Louis turned, he had seen the eager, riveted eyes of people hungry for entertainment. And then, suddenly, the bell rang and he had felt the bottom of his stomach drop out seeing Cohen sink into a crouch. Mac was going to have his opponent's glove tattooed to his face and kiss the canvas within seconds of the first round, plain and simple. That must have been the singular thought shared by every man and woman that had come to the club and had been gawking at the spectacle, drinks suddenly forgotten in their hands. The tension in the air was electric, near-palpable.

And it should have ended when "The Crusher" sent his fist rocketing at a downward angle for Mac's head- - but then, miraculously, the kid had weaved under and to the left of Cohen's arm, springing into the air to smash his left fist powerfully into his opponent's jaw. The club erupted into wild applause as the man staggered, dazed and uncomprehending, and Mac laid into his stomach with a few hooks. While his footwork had been a little sloppy and his form improper, there was no denying the boy was wicked-fast and heavily relied on that quickness to maneuver himself around some of the heavier blows thrown at him. One also didn't need to be right up by the ringside to tell Cohen was fiercely pissed at being made a fool. At last, a failed attempt at countering a straight punch opened Mac up to an underhanded uppercut square to the gut. Doc winced in sympathetic pain as the kid absorbed the shock of the blow and was sent reeling into the straining ropes, clutching at his midsection before his legs gave out beneath him.

The countdown had begun and spectators had risen from their chairs, thrusting their hands into the air and hollering their throats hoarse in protest. Dry-gagging, Mac fought to his feet with the support of the ropes, his knees trembling like jelly when he stood at the count of seven.

Cohen awaited him, mashing his fist into his palm.

The last fifteen seconds of the round had slipped away uneventfully, the boxers retiring to their corners. Cohen's manager pumped his arm, squirting water in his mouth to rinse out the blood; but Mac was alone. The kid flumped down over his stool, his shoulders hunched, and wiped his brow with his forearm, taking as deep lungfuls of air as the pain would permit. His dark, sweat-stung eyes drifted across the club. The referee came to him after a moment, leaning in to ask him something unheard over the crowd. Nodded dazedly, Mac had then been ushered to his feet, his gloves raised defensively. Blocking, however, was not the protective measure to take against someone who had over a one hundred pound advantage over him and he had known it.

The middle of the second round had exploded with a flurry of punches thrown by Cohen, the last of which clipped Mac's jaw, rattling his skull. Huffing furiously, the man took a counter-strike to his jaw as if he were a brick wall and lunged to deliver a vicious uppercut to Mac's face - just a second after the boy had squeezed his eyes shut, sharply twisted his body, and slammed his glove deep into the right side of Cohen's ribs. "The Crusher's" eyes had bulged and he bent double, his face twisting up - and the kid's head snapped backwards, flecks of blood and sweat spraying into the air. The blow had opened up an ugly, oozing cut over one of his eyebrows, the blood threatening to seep into his eye.

But Mac had hung on. Teetering and drunkenly stumbling forward, he seized the chance to throw every last ounce of desperate strength in him into nailing the underside of Cohen's chin while his slack-jawed opponent was still dazed from the shot to his liver. The effect had been as instantaneous as it had been unexpected. "The Crusher" had tipped forward and dropped bonelessly to the mat, Mac barely able to step back in time. Gasping and deaf to the referee's countdown, the kid had been left staring blankly at his fallen opponent, seeming completely lost until the referee yanked up his arm and the club rocked with applause.

Leaving his drink half-finished at a table, Doc had caught up with Mac when the ruckus had died down to excited chatter, finding him in a bare-walled back room not far from restrooms. The kid had sat bent over in a wooden chair with worn leather gloves at his feet, pressing a bag of ice to his face. He helped himself to a thirsty gulp of water from a bottle he clutched in one hand, wincing as he swallowed.

"Hey there, son."

Mac had raised his head, his right eye nearly swollen shut and a large blood-spotted swatch of gauze taped to his forehead. His left eye widened with incredulity. "Mr. Louis!"

"That was one hell of show."

The teen remained silent, anxious and hopeful as he searched Doc's face like a hungry dog looking for scraps. But the old man's tone only sharpened. "Y'could have gotten yourself real hurt out there, you know that?"

Adjusting the dripping bag of ice in his hand, Mac let his head drop. On his lap was a thin wad of twenty dollar bills.

"And all for a couple of bucks?"

"It _ain't_ a couple of bucks." Mac shot back.

"Well, it ain't worth you getting busted up this bad either, kid." Louis gestured to the money with a grim jerk of his chin. "You let 'em take advantage of you!"

Anger flashed in Mac's eyes. "This is _my_ life, okay?"

And he had been right. Letting out a tense breath, Doc broke eye contact and started for the door, massaging his temples, only to return to slumped figure in the chair. "Look, son, do your parents even know you're here?"

No response had come. Mac's chest only rose and fell sharply.

"If you need a quarter for a pay phone, I'll give you a _damn_ quarter. _Here_."

The boy hadn't so much as glanced at Doc's hand. His knuckles whitened around the water bottle - the plastic crinkling - and in a sudden blur of motion, he had jumped to his feet and whipped it at the wall a few feet from the man. Water splashed over the floor.

"Yeah? N' who am I gonna call?" Mac snapped, his voice raw and cracking. He fixed Doc a fierce, unblinking stare, jabbing a finger at his own chest. "I ain't got nobody, alright? I ain't got nobody! N' even if my ma and pa was here, think I'd want 'em takin' a look at me? They ain't never had no faith in me with this! I told 'em I'm sick a' comin' home with a bleedin' nose, that punchin' that bag at your gym makes me feel like I can do somethin', that bein' a boxer's what I wanna do. They looked at me like somethin' ain't right in my head!"

He faltered, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Everywhere I go I got people I don' even know tellin' me I can't do_ nothin'_ 'cause I ain't even five damn feet tall. Managers can't make no money off me, neither! I ain't no good at math, and I ain't real good at writin' or drawin' nice pictures - so what am I supposed t'do? Huh?" He threw out his arms. "What am I supposed t'do? I got bills, okay? I gotta bills t'pay so them couple 'a bucks mean helluva lot t'me!"

Tearing his gaze away from Doc's, Mac had run a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and sagged back into the seat as if all the life had drained out of him. He looked to his shoes, chest heaving, his empty hand curling into a fist. Fingers clenching and unclenching restlessly. When he had spoken again, his voice was lower, in defeat. "Just-" He shook his head in a fit of frustration, "Wh-why don'tchya just- -"

Breaking off, the kid wearily rubbed at his forehead, wincing, before letting his hand drop powerlessly to his lap. His shoulders began to tremble quietly.

Doc stood there, unmoving.

Mac slid lower in his seat, slowly lifting an arm to hide his face, like a child. A thick, hitching breath punctuated the silence, a moment later. "Sorry," He moaned, barely above a whisper. "M'sorry."

Slowly, the old man pulled up a chair next to him, heaving an imperceptible sigh as he settled down into it. And with dark, unfocused eyes, he gazed at the wall ahead, waiting, just waiting with all the patience in the world for the kid's anguished breathing to even out and for silence to settle between them. "...I saw some good fighting out there, kid." He said thoughtfully, after a long moment.

The manager of the club had later asked Mac if he would like to return the following Friday. The unbalanced match-up with Cohen had drawn a sizable crowd which had been good for business. The kid agreed to a second fight, which Doc had attended; and even though Mac had been knocked out in the fourth round, suffering his first loss, the former heavyweight champion saw potential in the way the kid ducked and weaved, reading the moves of his opponents like a chess connoisseur before countering viciously. Not every boxer was capable of thinking sharp on his or her feet, and especially after taking half a dozen solid blows from an opponent easily twice their weight. With proper guidance and some work, he had felt increasingly sure that this rough-edged, unpolished gem of a boxer could really shine in the WVBA world.

The kid had stared awestruck when Doc had proposed becoming his manager. He had braced the wall with one hand and dropped into the nearest chair as if his legs had buckled on him. Why _him_, his wide, wondering eyes had asked; why had Jerome Louis chosen to commit himself to _his_ career when other potential trainers had turned him away, and why wouldn't a man of his experience invest his time and energy in a fighter who was a little older, a little taller, and a little more skilled?

"If I wanted something easier, kid, I'd have gone for that already." The old man snorted, and then after a beat, he had held out his palm. "Guess I like you, Mac. You surprised me. You make your size work for you in that ring, and I think somewhere in you, you've got that fire to make it far. Now it's gonna be a hard road, and if you're gonna let me take you there, y'gotta give me nothing less than 110%. Make that 120%."

For a moment, it had seemed as though Mac had forgotten how to form words. "Mr. Louis- -"

"Save some tears for when I stretch out your hamstrings, son. And call me Doc."

The kid managed a soft, shaky chuckle and clasped his manager's hand, firmly shaking it.

* * *

><p>Three years later, Louis could sometimes hardly believe the progress they had made. Good things truly <em>did<em> come in small packages. _Look at you now_, he mused, armed with punching pads he thrust relentlessly in Mac's direction.

While he hadn't grown so much as an inch in height, Doc's protege had undeniably grown as a fighter, rounding out his skills and even filling out his tank top better as he packed on some muscle. The teen bounced lightly on the balls of his feet - teeth clenched, sweat-stung eyes pinned forward - and with a tight ripple of muscles in his back, he drew from deep-seated power at his navel and drove his fists into the pads, over and over again. Feeling the raw power behind them, Doc gave a thrilled whoop.

"Woo, now _that's_ it, Mac baby! _That's_ what I'm talkin' about! _Woowee_!" Breathless himself, Louis rested his hands on his hips with an air of satisfaction. "You'll make Super Macho Man's big ol' head spin when you give him the _one-two_!"

Relaxing his orthodox stance, Mac gratefully took his first opportunity in half an hour to catch his breath. "That's what I keep hearin'." A hint of a tired grin teased the corners of his lips.

"Speakin' of that joker, you all packed?"

There wasn't all that much for Mac to lug with him to California. He had thrown his green trunks, a couple of muscle shirts, a t-shirt, boxing shoes, some underwear, and toiletries into a duffel bag, and intended to stuff in his training suit and gloves in when he had gotten home. If his luggage was too heavy or wouldn't zip up, he was certain he would be able to toss his gloves with Doc's belongings. "Uh-huh."

"Good." He clapped Mac over the shoulder, mindful to be a little less forceful than last time. "Now it's gettin' late, baby. Go stretch, shower up, n' get your food from the back. You try gettin' some shut-eye and I'll call you... don't you go forgettin' to set up that alarm clock!"


	5. 5

The paparazzi laid in wait.

As soon as they had caught wind of Mac and Doc's hotel arrangements – some no doubt raising their eyebrows at the news that the two would be bunking together in a single suite – and got hold of their flight schedule information, they formed a throng around the hotel's entrance early, with cameras slung around their necks, to greet the New Yorkers.

Shambling stiff-legged through the airport and slogging through customs, the young boxer and his manager weren't quite prepared to be received as if they were attending a red carpet gala event when they had stepped out of their cab, hair disheveled and clothes askew.

With one hard-earned victory after another, Mac enjoyed more fame than he could have ever imagined, something to which he had yet to fully adjust. Prior to his professional debut, he had largely passed unnoticed down the street which suited him just fine, more so when he meant to avoid crossing paths with old bullies. But now there were people from big cities who wanted him to pose for the covers of magazines in various states of undress, and others who were avidly curious to know of what he ate, where he went, and who he may be seeing when he went out into the public eye. Frequently overwhelmed by these attentions, he turned to Doc to sort out matters relating to business and his public image, leaving him to determine what was in his best interests. They were usually of one mind on the matter after the man would patiently explain to him why he should decline _this_ or _that_ - and in the end, Mac was satisfied enough with the still-surreal shock of seeing his face in the local paper every so often.

When the photographers pressed in closer, not opposed to taking an unflattering shot, the kid began to regret he had carelessly thrown on the first t-shirt he had seen upon waking up. The paparazzi were always looking for the stuff of a juicy tabloid article, but thus far, their efforts had been unsuccessful with inquiries into Mac's past yielding uninteresting results (save for how his boxing career took off – although nearly all of America was well-acquainted with that story by now.) The kid appeared to be _squeaky clean_. At least, if nothing else, they could always take jabs at his lack of fashion sense.

Positioning his arm to serve as a rudimentary shield, Doc forged on ahead, glancing over his shoulder and motioning with his head for the duffel-bag-toting teen to follow.

"Mac, over here!" someone cried out.

Pausing a few feet of the hotel lobby's entrance, the kid flicked a curious glance to his left and noticed a pair of teenage girls squeezing through the ring of photographers. It always surprised him a little that he attracted female attention as a boxer, as he couldn't see how the brutality of the sport would appeal to them. He figured they didn't have the stomach for it.

"Oh my god, he's looking at me." The shorter girl squealed. "He's even cuter close-up."

Her friend looked thoroughly unimpressed, her arms akimbo. "Okay, can we _go_ already? Macho's _so _much more of a hunk than this loser."

"Shut up!" Her scowl dissolved, replaced by a hopeful expression when she turned her attention back towards the boy. "Mac…!" Ruffling through her purse, she pulled out a brightly coloured notebook and extended a pen, looking about anxiously as the sea of paparazzi shifted, bumping and pushing her about. "Can you sign this?"

She had a sweet, earnest face and flushed cheeks that dimpled when she gave him a smile. He came to his decision in a heartbeat.

There was no harm in simply signing his name; after all, if he had the power to make someone infinitely happier so easily, he could definitely spare a moment. Setting his bag down at his feet, he approached the girl near-trembling in anticipation, reached for her pen - -

- - and stiffened when he felt someone lay a hand over him, gently albeit firmly. He twisted his head over his shoulder.

"C'mon, son," Doc urged; Mac felt him encouragingly press his palm against his back. "Let's keep those hormones of yours in check."

"...But…"

"No buts. It's like a beehive out here."

Pursing his lips, the boxer resigned himself to the situation and let himself be ushered away. But not without offering his crestfallen fan an apologetic look before vanishing into the lobby, the glass door falling shut behind him.

After checking in at the reception desk and receiving two sets of keys, they made for the fourth floor at last and located their suite. Mac dropped his bag just past the door and wandered ahead in his shoes, peering curiously into each room. Spacious and elegant, it was a far cry from the apartment he lived in with its peeling lead paint in the bathroom he promised himself he would scrape off and paint over, and its pawn-shop-and-curb-side furniture. The suite had two small, separate washrooms with shower cubicles and a bathtub each, a kitchen equipped with a full-sized refrigerator, a few simple appliances, dishes, cutlery, and cookware – not that they would much need them - and a single open bedroom doubling as a lounging space, with a few padded chairs, a sleek desk, a television, and potted plants for decor. The balcony was accessible by way of a sliding glass door. Mac never ceased to be impressed by the hotels they stayed at.

Used to sleeping in a foldable cot, he couldn't resist swan-diving onto one of the queen-sized beds as soon as he laid eyes on it, stretching himself out and marveling at the space he had left to roll around in. One of the perks of being a successful boxer was in flying outside New York every so often and spending a restful night or two in a hotel room with cushy beds that didn't squeak and groan, and that had bathrooms with fancy samples of shampoo and soap. The samples always smelled more like they were meant for girls, though.

"This is amazin'…" Mac murmured in a pillow-muffled voice, relishing the give and bounce of the mattress and more keenly aware, in his idleness, of the deep soreness in his shoulders that came in lugging his bag around. He took a slow, deep breath, hearing the joints in his ribs and spine pop and crackle gently.

Doc sank into his own bed with a sharp exhale. "How's about we get some rest, son?" He proposed, stretching languorously and wiggling his toes. "I'm feelin' pretty beat. We can figure out where we're gonna eat later."

The teen sloughed off his shoes with his feet and laid there, face-down, one arm lazily hanging off the bedside. "Mn-hm."

* * *

><p>An hour and a half seemed to whip past in the blink of an eye.<p>

Stirring, Mac groggily cracked his eyes open, needing a moment to reacquaint himself with his surroundings and equally slow to realize that he had drooled a little over his pillow. He wiped at his mouth and rolled heavily onto his back, feeling less refreshed than he had hoped. _Must have napped too long_, he mused, unconsciously looking to his wrist - - and he realized that the one thing he had forgotten at his apartment _was_ his watch.

Nerves beginning to itch with restlessness, Mac glanced across the end table between beds. "Hey Doc, what's the ti- -"

Doc was snoring lightly, the deep lines creasing his forehead soft in sleep. The man had driven them both to the airport in the wee hours of the morning – offering Mac the opportunity to nap for a good half hour in the passenger seat – and couldn't have caught more than a wink of sleep on the flight with turbulence frequently rocking the plane. Mac remembered rousing periodically to the ruffling and clicking of Doc fumbling to unbuckle his safety belt before dashing wobbly-legged to the restroom.

While the teen would have liked to flip on the television and channel surf, he didn't want to risk troubling Doc by attempting to slide the remote free from underneath his hands, which were draped peacefully over his stomach.

He watched the lazy rise and fall of Doc's belly for a moment – reassured - before willing himself to sit up with a grunt, his hands resting lightly in his lap. Waves of post-nap weariness washed over him, his head foggy. He thoroughly disliked the feeling knowing he could easily squander a good ten minutes just sitting there, figuring out what he meant to do with himself. There was a match tomorrow night, he sternly reminded himself, shaking his head in an effort to clear it.

Shooting to his feet with a decisive purposefulness, the teen approached the desk and snatched a blank comment card and pen. Within seconds, he was scrawling a note:

_Gone out, will be back soon. Got my keys so don't worry. I'll make sure to keep my eyes open for any nice places to eat._

_Take it easy, Doc._

Indecisive as to where to leave the card, Mac settled at last on placing it over the end table, reasoning that Doc would notice it the instant he turned his head. He then stuffed and twisted his feet into his haphazardly discarded running shoes and slipped out the door, sucking in his breath as he gingerly pulled it shut.

To the teen's relief, the hotel receptionist was absorbed in a glossy magazine and the photographers from earlier seemed to have scattered, allowing him to exit the lobby quietly. Jamming his hands into his track pants, he ambled down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, absently observing the rhythm of glitzy city life while looking for a burger joint. While it was not his first time in Hollywood, the initial impression he had formed wasn't on the verge of changing. Thrilling as he found it to be at the bustling heart of the American movie industry, surrounded by palm trees and expensive boutiques, he had become distinctly aware of how terribly out of place he was. He was just a bright-eyed outsider looking in on another world, another way of life, with his nose pressed up to the glass. The way some people with sleek leather purses and lacquered nails looked at him in his tank top and track pants made him feel like he were nothing more than something stuck to their shoes. He resolved not to let it get to him, trying to convince himself that it didn't 'bother him none' when a bag-toting woman carelessly bumped into him and expected an apology.

While glancing through the windows of a few shops, he found himself already beginning to miss cheap hotdogs and pop rocks and Hubba Bubba bubble gum. He missed being able to walk down the street to the corner store - not feeling like he had to dress up _real nice_ like he would when he used to go to church - and recognizing some faces on the way.

"Kid!"

"Hey, you!"

Mac snapped to attention, stopping. Two young men - one sporting a rat-tail and the other a slick pompadour - were leaning against a store front, gazing fixedly at him with a near-matching pair of open shirts and grins.

"You're Shorty from _Da Bronx_, right?"

Indignation surged through him and he flushed hotly, his heart thudding harder against his ribs. "My name ain't _Shorty_…" The teen managed, breathing through a familiar, sudden tightness in his chest. "It's _Mac_."

Trading glances with his friend, snickering, _Rat-tail_ slid up his aviator sunglasses. "Oooh, _touchyyyy_… whatever you say, _Shorty_."

Every little laugh stuck in him like barbs. He set his jaw and swallowed, tendons rippling in his arms as his knuckles whitened.

_This_ was the schoolyard all over again. He was done with that, over that, above taking the bait. With his muscles tinglingly taut in anticipation, willing himself to twist around and leave was a Herculean task. But he forced himself to press on and distance himself from the young men, struggling to focus through the muddled haze of his thoughts on the simple action of placing one foot in front of the other. He shut his eyes.

_Deep belly breaths, just like Doc said; just like Doc said..._

But he felt his breath hitch mid-inhale when a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder and squeezed. His mind raced, his eyes wide and staring frozenly into space. Sweat prickled along his spine.

_Doc...?_

"Where d'you think you're going so fast, huh?" Rat-tail relaxed his grip slightly, oozing mock cordiality. _"Relaaax_, kid, we just want to talk a little."


	6. 6

"I ain't gonna throw the fight!" Mac snapped, his eyes glinting fiercely. "Why the heck would I?"

_Rat-tail_ spread his hands matter-of-factly. He hadn't exactly expected the Bronxite to consider his request; at least, not right away. But he was neither pleased nor impressed by Mac's defiance all the same, rolling his eyes as if he had to re-explain a simple concept to a child. "Listen, _Shorty_, you're lucky Macho's even giving you a chance to face him. It's wannabes like you that totally make him and the whole sport look bad. I know _I'd_ die of embarrassment in the ring with some midget-fag." He pulled a face. "That Disco-_flamer_ already made me puke a little in my mouth. Macho deserves a REAL boxer to pound to dust. So how about you quit while you're still in one piece and leave boxing to the men, huh?"

Heads turned, curious passers-by slowing their pace.

The words formed a thick fog around Mac, and for a while he was too stunned to think of a coherent response, squinting. "_What?_"

"Dude's totally wigging out." Pompadour said with a snort, still leaning against the store front with his arms folded across his chest. "He's gonna bust a vein if you keep eggin' him, Ron."

Rat-tail grinned fiercely, and something about that smile of deep, private, predatory satisfaction rattled Mac to the core. "You _heard_ me, _Shorty_. Say, we hear you're sleeping up in a single hotel room with that fat, butt-ugly coach of yours. Don't think we don't know what you're up to. Looks like Coach's got no problem boinking a kid, huh? Likes 'em _real_ nice and tight. Is that how he trains you?"

The image made Pompadour's face twist into a pained grimace. "Ugh, that's fucking gross, dude."

From the way his stomach lurched, Mac felt for a moment like he was still in the plane and experiencing a steep drop in cabin pressure. But then every word sank in inch by inch, his pulse hammering his skull while a surge of rage choked the breath out of him. From the stiffness of his mouth and the subtle jerking motions in his throat, it almost seemed as though he was fighting back tears. But Mac's slitted eyes were clear and sharp, pinned on the young man standing before him. "Don't you ever, _EVER_ talk about me n' Doc that way!" He spat viciously, unaware of how hard he was shaking. "He ain't ever done _nothin'_ wrong to me or to nobody! You take that _back_!"

"Or what?" Rat-tail prodded with an amused lilt to his voice, flicking a glance at his friend. "What're you gonna do?" Pausing, the look of cocky amusement on his face twisted into a grim, hard smile. He massaged his knuckles. "You try any funny business around here and we'll make sure that you and guys like you get the fuck off our street. Though, iunno, I guess we _could_ leave something for Macho Man so he can really splatter you all over the ring."

Tight-lipped and nostrils flaring, the kid took a brisk half-step forward only for Rat-tail's hand to shove against his chest and thrust him back. Pompadour broke into laughter that seemed to press in on Mac from all sides.

The kid's mouth went dry, his head throbbing harder as all the liquid in his body worked to a roiling boil and the world spun round and round -

And suddenly Mac saw someone's hand thrust out and smash squarely into Rat-tail's nose with a force that rocked the guy's head back, close enough to hear the brutal crunching of cartilage and a high-pitched wail of pain.

Then something hot and wet spurted over his own knuckles, jarring him to his senses.

_Blood._

Realization slid through his gut like a cold knife.

"_Christ_!" Rat-tail snarled as he clutched at his oozing, twisted lump of a nose with trembling hands, tears and thick rivers of blood streaking his lips and chin. "The _fucker_ broke my nose!"

Mac felt as if all his blood had drained out of him in a tingling rush and he stared back for a moment, frozenly and unseeingly, the hollow ache of anxiety quickening and deepening in his chest. Suddenly, Rat-tail was lunging at him – and the teen's mind promptly shifted into auto-pilot with an ease that surprised himself, synapses firing wildly. His body instinctively slipped under the punch and he wheeled around in time to feel something dull and heavy slam into the back of his head with a force that seemed to joggle his eyes. The explosion of pain and disorientation sent him staggering sideways into a brick wall, gasping as he braced it with a hand. His surroundings were a blurry jumble of colours, bright spots pulsing in his vision. Reaching back to shakily probe his throbbing skull, he felt no blood. But relief was quick to fade when he raised his head and drowsily looked about, blinking hard in an attempt to sharpen his focus. People were rushing at him, too many people…

And Mac found himself sucked into a powerful vortex, jostled around and struck at, pushed and pulled, hands snatching his tank top and at the waist of his track pants, tugging him into punches and kicks while others tried to yank him free. He sluggishly pulled his fists to his chest defensively, tasting blood and bile. The shouting and grunting and the heavy, meaty thud of blows connecting sounding dim, far away, as if this were someone else's body and someone else's life unfolding.

But then a single cry, alarmingly clear, pierced the noise, changing everything.

"_Break his hands_! That'll teach the fucker some manners!"

A roar of approval.

Mac broke out into an icy sweat, his eyes widening sharply. Half-blinded by panic, he shot a wild, almost pleading glance left and right, searching for a sympathetic face, a familiar face. A frisson raced through his backbone when someone from behind him reached around and grabbed hold of his wrist, beginning to twist his arm at an awkward angle. A burning twinge of pain sent a fresh pang of fear through him.

"_Stop_!" He cried out, fighting to wrench himself free. "Lemme go!"

And then the vice-like grip released.

But there wasn't the chance for a reeling Mac to appreciate the overwhelming relief that should have flooded him, because he was being shoved roughly against a wall and pinned there even as he thrashed, the bricks grazing his cheek as he twisted his head to try and look. "_Get off!_"

"Don't move!" A voice commanded him, as sharp and authoritative as the crack of a whip. He went rigid, his chest heaving, as something cold snapped and tightened around his wrists. "You are under arrest."


	7. 7

In four words, Mac had hurtled from his adrenaline-high to a heart-sickened rock-bottom. And in the moments that followed, he lost nearly all sense of time, of the aching of his body, and of the stickiness of his sweaty skin. The ride to the police station and the experience of being questioned for personal information blurred together and even now, as he was lead by the arm and taken to be seen by the nurse, his mind was still struggling to catch up, lagging a thousand miles away from his numb, heavy body.

After sitting himself down on the examination table - the crinkling of sterile drapes having seemed painfully loud – Mac fought to keep from picking at the skin around his fingernails or bouncing his knee as he waited with only the sound of a pen scratching and scraping against paper to listen to, his insides twisting up like cloth being wrung in someone's hands. An officer stood vigilantly and with folded arms at the corner of the room by a locker stuffed with medical supplies. Their eyes met and the boy immediately averted his, staring at the tiled floor instead. It was the safest place to rest his gaze. But he felt the man's presence regardless - his glowering disapproval - like a chill in the room. His bare arms were studded with goosebumps, his fingers feeling cold and stiff.

He had tried his best to be a good kid.

He had finished his homework every night - albeit with reluctance and difficulty – when he had been in school; he had striven to get decent grades. He washed his hands before dinner, he minded his language as best he could, never drank or took drugs, and made sure to chew with his mouth closed whenever he remembered. The worst he had ever really done was steal some candy and a bag of jacks from the store as an eleven year old frustrated with his frugal parents, with the unfairness of life, and with living in a damn dumpy little house next to other dumpy little house for as long as he could remember.

Snapping on a pair of gloves, the nurse sat up from her chair and approached him at last with a penlight.

"Lift your head, please, and look straight ahead."

He obeyed, half-reluctantly. His eyes were raw-rimmed and shiny.

She flashed the light into them, one at a time, frowning thoughtfully at the sharp contraction of his pupils. No indication of any severe head trauma. Pocketing the implement, she then carefully turned his face in her hands, to one side and to the other, noting the slight swelling around the left cheekbone, the bruising around the jaw.

The latex was smooth and vaguely cool against his sore skin.

She had him sit to one side and lower his head, allowing her to cautiously brush aside his hair and inspect the tender lump at the back of his skull.

"Any nausea? Vomiting?"

It was a strain to think. Battling his bone-dry, clenching throat, he managed to answer, his voice just above a whisper. "Jus' nausea."

"Just nausea then. Good. The feeling _should_ go away in a few hours."

The rest of the examination was carried out with brisk efficiency. Within ten minutes, he had his ribs and abdomen palpated for fractures and visceral injuries, had a TB test administered, and was being ushered into a holding room with a bag of ice. Gazes holding wariness, amused curiosity, and haggard indifference turned towards him all at once. Only two people seemed like they might be anywhere near his age.

Mac dropped down onto a wooden bench set into the wall, looking desperately towards the thick, fingerprint-smeared glass window. But the officer who had shown him in didn't notice. Grinding a key into the lock and securing the door, the man turned his heel and walked off, moving further and further away until he turned the corner into another hall.

Five minutes passed. Then ten; then twenty.

Reluctantly, Mac pulled his attention away and willed himself to rest his head against the wall. He shut his eyes.

In a match his mind was an invaluable asset, sharp and usually fairly quick to perceive openings in the guard of his opponents. But here and now, as minutes bled away in idleness and the shock of his incarceration began to wear off, it was the biggest threat to his well-being in the room, even while among some people of questionable sobriety.

His mind played and replayed the confrontation in the streets a hundred times over in a hundred different ways until he could no longer clearly remember how the incident began. _Then, what ifs_ and _what nows_ mobbed him- -

_What if he had shown self-restraint and just walked away? And what if he missed the match tomorrow night?_

- - ruthlessly attacking his nerves one question at a time.

It felt like a lifetime ago since he had been training rigorously to prepare himself for his match and the sudden thought of all the effort and progress, everything he and Doc had worked for going to waste because of a single, impulsive decision was…

Mac pressed the heels of his palm to his eyebrows, thumping them pathetically against his forehead before letting them fall to his lap. By sheer will alone, he managed to sit still. But his hands bunched into hard fists as his thoughts locked onto Rat-tail. His Aviator glasses, his broad, daring smirk… his bloodied nose. Even if the man was standing right before him, challenging him, and even if Mac projected onto him every bit of frustration he had ever felt coming home from school bruised or ridiculed, Mac knew he couldn't let himself throw another punch at him. Although dizzyingly intense, his anger was powerless against Rat-tail, unable to touch him. So it turned inward.

He had done what Doc had told him never to do and could only imagine, with a sense of dread, the look on his face he would be forced to acknowledge whenever they next met.

An hour passed, then another spent thrashing inside himself with furious guilt. The teen was barely a hair away from punching the glass as if the raw pain spiking through his knuckles would ease his conscience. But it wasn't that easy. Nothing ever was.

Eventually, though, his rage petered out. It hadn't resolved itself so much as drained too much of his energy, having little left to keep it going. And by the end Mac was left in a fog, exhausted emotionally, spiritually, physically. He cracked open his eyes for the first time in a long time, slowly coming to realize he was still in the holding cell and aching with hunger. He glanced about himself and saw tired, wary looks around him. The looks of too many thrown into a small space with nothing to do but to pace in restless circles.

But among those around him, one single person stood out. It was a middle-aged, blond-haired man, respectable-looking in a button-down shirt and slacks. He sat leaning forward with his elbows resting over his knees, his fingers laced together. All but unremarkable, save for the fact that he was staring at Mac from across the room. Staring, even after the others had lost interest. Unblinking, unsmiling, inscrutable.

The ever-present sinking feeling in Mac's gut sharpened and he dropped his gaze, a tremor passing through his body. His thoughts raced.

They couldn't take him to prison with grown men. Everyone had heard of the prison hierarchy and the violent, terrible things inmates were capable of doing to one another. How would he survive?

Swallowing thickly, Mac clenched his jaw and pressed his damp, trembling hands together, trapping them between his knees to steady them. When he tentatively lifted his eyes, he felt a stab of alarm to find that the stranger's attention was on him still. He felt dizzy, a cold, queasy feeling spreading through him.

The jangling of keys at the door of the room jerked him to awareness.

"Hey, kid," the officer called gruffly. It was the dour-faced man from the nurse's office.

Mac looked up, near-sick with anticipation. A prickling bead of sweat dripped between his shoulderblades.

"Yes, _you_. Come with me, please."

The kid's eyes begged for an explanation as he rose to his feet, inwardly praying that his rubbery legs would bear his weight as he stumbled along into the lobby. At the sight of someone waiting for him he felt his stomach lurch a little, his heart becoming one big, fiercely aching knot in his chest.

It was Doc.

"You are being released into the custody of your adult chaperone." The officer stated.

Mac's mouth opened but he faltered, staring dumbly. "You're … lettin' me go?"

"We have reason to believe you were the victim of provocation and simple battery, and you were acting in self-defense."

Slowly absorbing the information, the boxer looked to Doc like a man lost at sea would at the sight of a life-preserver. He desperately needed a smile more than anything else, no matter how feigned or forced or weak an attempt at reassurance, at kindness.

But Doc glanced back wearily, unsmiling.

"I don't ever want to see you back here again, son." The officer added. "Think smart next time."

Mac willed himself to nod and moved to his manager's side, his pulse thundering in his ears.

It felt almost surreal, tiredly pushing through the front door with him and feeling fresh air on his skin again. Night had fallen. But he soon discovered it was anything but quiet. In an instant they were swarmed by hollering paparazzi frantically snapping photos and news reporters with microphones and large camcorders hefted over their shoulders.

_"What was going through your mind?"_

_"Mac, is it true you broke a young man's nose, and then sucker-punched him in the back of the head?"_

With one arm both guiding and shielding Mac, Doc sidled determinedly through the masses, using his bulk to help pave them a path. "Don't answer 'em, Mac." He warned, catching a glimpse of his protégé's expression. "They're just tryin' to ruffle your feathers. Try t'keep your head down."

It was a long way back to their hotel.

They barely managed to flag down a cab and escape, slamming the door on the paparazzi and rolling up the windows before they pressed in too close like rioters looking to rock the car onto its roof. The cabbie hit the gas and Mac wanted to believe that the chaos behind them. But when they paid the fare and stepped out not one hundred feet from the hotel's entrance, some two dozen protesters were ready for them.

"There he is!" One of them thrust his finger incriminatingly at Mac.

"How'd he get the fuck out of there?"

"_Hey_! Think you're a big shot New Yorker, punching a guy in the face 'cause he's a Macho fan? That's_ real_ classy - that's real sportsmanship right there, man! They should have totally locked your ass away with some big guy. That'd teach you!"

Crumpled cans arced over Doc's head. The third barely missed him.

"Go back to the Bronx!"

A soft drink container suddenly bounced heavily against Mac's shoulder, cold cola splashing onto him.

"Keep going, son." Doc urged, as the kid's back went rigid. "Keep going."


	8. 8

To the world, he was _Super Macho Man_, the highest ranking fighter in the World Video Boxing Association after Mr. Sandman, and one of the biggest names in the fashion industry. To his buddies by the beach and those who dealt with him on a daily basis, he was simply Macho for short, the man with the sleek ride, the money to burn, and with more than a few fawning girls tripping over themselves just to get a good look at him.

As much as he himself hated to acknowledge it, he hadn't always been known to the public as Super Macho Man. How he had acquired the moniker was not something he often reflected on, for his past before his rise to glory was of little interest to him. But, never one to resist indulging curious interviewers with one of his many success stories, he wove the tale of a twenty year old man who had only moved to Hollywood two years prior and who, even before having his image splashed over the glossy pages of _Vanity Fair_ and _GQ_ and _Esquire_, had been an awesome physical specimen. It had just so happened that one day, a modeling agent attending a beach volleyball match had discovered him and readily made an offer. Macho had undeniable potential, he had said - and so it was only fitting that he had a name to match his impressive physique, one that was bold and brash and memorable.

With that, _Macho Man_ was born – and soon enough _everyone_ wanted a piece of him, demanding that he model _this_ and endorse _that_. It eventually came to his attention, though, that he had not been the only Macho Man known to the entertainment industry. Both to differentiate himself from "crusty, old" Randy Savage of professional wrestling fame and to assert his superiority, Macho Man had then seen it fit to add '_super_' to his name. It lent the moniker a certain pizzazz - and also helped him dodge a lawsuit in the process. A detail which he never felt the need to add.

Whenever he was interviewed, Macho also enjoyed discussing how he had dabbled with acting on several occasions and nabbed a few trophies for his cameos in two highly successful films. These joined his other ribbons and well-polished plaques and statuettes, of course – his "Mr. Hollywood"s and "Best Model of the Year"s, and several Golden _Globes_ awards (not to be confused with the Golden Globe). He kept all of them in a large glass display case directly across his bed so that they were the first things he saw every morning - after the ceiling - and among the last things he saw before shutting his eyes at night.

Any day now, he would surely receive a call or a letter informing him that he had been inducted into the Hollywood Walk of Fame for all his accomplishments, and would be immortalized through an imprint of his chin.

Despite his careers in the modeling and entertainment business, Super Macho Man was keen on exploring new avenues of popularity and showcasing his diverse talent. That interest was what had prompted him to look into boxing, after all. The sport had struck him as a great opportunity to outmuscle others and look good while doing it, and the fact that he had the strength and endurance for it was the icing on the cake. He didn't need a manager to tell him what he could or couldn't do, he had decided early on, and he had done more than well enough on his own. Having some guy – a washed-up has-been, even, like that Jerome Louis guy - follow him around like a sick puppy would be a waste of time and money and detract from his image.

What man wouldn't want to live like Super Macho Man?

The palatial beach-house he called home was the likes of a five star hotel, all marble and lacquered hardwood flooring and billowy drapes, with a dozen hired personnel keeping bushes groomed and plants watered, the outdoor and indoor pools crystal-clear, and ensuring that the patio, veranda, driveway, hallways, and every single spacious room was nothing short of spotless. Of all these tasks, the maintenance of the rooms was perhaps the easiest, for as lovely as they were, easily half of them were never used and had instead become storage places for luxurious impulse buys. He had no shortage of these valuables lining the walls and artfully positioned in the guest rooms especially, but rarely had any actual guests.

Every so often, when the maid with the cute butt would come by as part of her biweekly routine, Macho would tell her the same thing he had since he had hired her: that he needed the guest rooms to be arranged because he was "totally going to have a wicked-awesome party on the weekend and the guys were gonna stay over". The next time they would speak, however, she would either hear that the get-together had been called off due to something important coming up – the excuses ranged from a photoshoot to a match to a promotional gig. Or, he would grin and tell her "they had wrecked the place". The guest rooms never looked any different to her; however, it didn't matter much to her how he lived his life so long as she got her hefty paycheck on time. Sara, his perky make-up artist and hairstylist, more or less felt the same despite the beaming, too-white smile she greeted him with.

Today he had had to meet up with her at 7:25 AM – earlier than usual - to be able to attend a morning photoshoot – and had returned to her for touch-ups before posing for a pin-up poster at noon. He had at least been able to catch a bit of a break and soak in some righteous rays at the beach afterwards, bumping and spiking and serving a few volleyballs before having made for the tanning salon and then the gym. Then at last, after showering up and primping up, he had sat down to dinner at _Osterio Mozza_, offering his best smiles to the paparazzi. That is, after checking to make sure he had nothing stuck between his teeth.

It had been a long, productive day and he felt it all in his back.

Throwing himself onto his king-sized bed with a groan, Macho contemplated soaking in the scarcely used Jacuzzi he had bought years ago. But, grabbing the phone, he settled instead on calling Sasha over, his personal masseuse, for an hour-long session. The Jacuzzi wouldn't provide good company and it lacked a certain pleasure only a woman's touch could offer him.

He went into the lounge room where his massage table was set up, dimmed the lights, and unbuttoned his shirt halfway before greeting her.

Sasha was a certified massage therapist.

She was, therefore, professional, and it was the very most he could do to keep his libido in check just enough so that she didn't run off like the last masseuse. Besides, he didn't _need_ an erotic massage; he figured he had more than enough sex appeal and _vigour_ to make every massage a powerfully erotic experience anyway.

By now, Sasha was used to him and his quirks. He resembled a lion, she thought, with his heavy, sinewy muscles, and in the way his presence filled a room. But, here was a lion that had only as much power as one would give it, and one that would nuzzle and paw at someone like a house cat if they didn't seem impressed by his roar. While it wasn't her job to humour him when he regaled in tales of his beach volleyball tournaments or his boxing exploits, she didn't mind, understanding Macho Man wasn't the type of client to fall silent or asleep during a session. It was difficult to stifle a chuckle at him, sometimes, but fortunately he never took it the wrong way. In fact, it seemed only to encourage him.

He was quite a character, no doubt about it, and there was something almost charming sometimes about his obliviousness. Although she wasn't sure if she would say the same if she spent more than one hour at a time with him.

After working half a small bottle of oil into his broad, sun-bronzed back, Sasha began to knead his neck and shoulders in the way he loved best, digging deep into the 'sweet spots', as he called them.

"Urgh, yeah!" He groaned, "Yeah! _Work it_!"

Sometimes she was glad there weren't many around in his mansion in the evening to hear them.

"Well, you're feeling a little tense." She remarked, expertly grinding a knuckle into a knot around the outer edge of his right shoulder-blade. "Are you nervous at all about that match of yours tomorrow night?"

"_Me_, nervous? Don't make me laugh." He scoffed mirthlessly, his voice sounding a little strained. She eased up on the pressure.

"You should lighten up a little, Macho; laughter is good for you, you know."

"Have you even seen him? The dude's a total loser, babe. Fighting him would make even me look bad - - if I _could_ look bad. Everyone else may have felt sorry for him and took it easy on him, but I'm gonna be the one to put him in his place. He won't even know what hit him."

Sasha was silent for a moment while kneading his shoulder. "I think it's really something that he has gotten so far… I don't know if he's just really determined or just some mix of crazy and talented and super lucky. Is he seventeen or eighteen? I can never remember. You would think a kid like that should be in school."

Macho stiffened. "Please. You're not _still_ thinking about him, are you?" His tone made it sound as if she had been discussing in detail the crustiest, gnarliest case of athlete's foot she had ever seen.

"Well, if _you_ aren't feeling nervous, I don't think I need to worry about you much, now do I?"

It had been a playful, joking remark – but the way he jutted out his chin suggested otherwise.

"How can they allow such unbalanced fights like these, though?" She pressed on, more with a measure of curiosity than shock or indignant disgust. "The WVBA, I mean. Someone can be seriously hurt."

"Whatever," He shrugged his meaty shoulders or, at least, as best he could while lying on his stomach. "The crowd wants a good show, babe, and I'm gonna give it to them." With gruff amusement, he then added, "Any kid who thinks he's good enough to go up against me is totally asking for a beating."

While Macho and Mac hadn't spoken so much as two words to each other, their antagonism sprung from more than the sheer competitiveness of the sport. The kid had made it personal, Macho thought. He hadn't been so much as a speck in Macho's universe when climbing the ranks of the Minor Circuit, but it was when the Bronxite emerged victorious as a Minor and Major circuit title-holder that Macho was forced to take notice of the fact that people were suddenly talking about Mac and marveling at Mac and wanting photos of Mac.

So what if Little Mac had some popularity?

Spraying a piece of trash gold didn't change what it was.

It irked him that the kid was enjoying this success without having done much to deserve it, too. Where were his trophies and his ribbons and his plaques? He had gotten ridiculously lucky, that was all; but the faster they rose, the faster they'd fall. After stomping Mac's ego flat tomorrow night – something which someone should have done a long time ago - people would realize they had made a mistake in looking in the kid's direction when there had been a more deserving and photogenic star in their midst all along. He hadn't decided yet whether he would forgive them when they came running back, or turn up his chin.

Sensing her client's sullenness, Sasha rescued the conversation, redirecting it. The shadow looming over Macho's brow lifted immediately and he launched into an anecdote. And never let up.

"…Yeah, so I said to him, dude, that's tubular! And it was, babe, it totally was. You should have been there!"

"Well, Macho," She interrupted gently after a while, straightening. "Our hour is up. Take your time getting up, and don't forget to drink water to help flush the toxins out of your body."

Slowly, he rolled onto his side and rest his face his palm, his other thick-muscled arm akimbo. He studied her as she packed away her things. Her long black hair, her fine-boned fingers, her petite figure flattered by a snug pair of skinny jeans and a belted shirt. Certainly sexy enough to be seen with him.

"Sasha, babe… Let's do lunch tomorrow. You n' me, eleven o' clock. You like Italian?"

She looked up at him blankly as if he had spoken an unknown language, tucking a stray dark hair behind her ear. Letting out a breath, she broke into a smile, shouldering her purse. "Sorry, Macho… but my mother's still in the hospital, remember? I have to visit her tomorrow."

A beat passed. Macho gave her a meaningful look.

"Then make it Thursday. How about it?"

Sasha froze at the doorway, just staring at him before shaking her head in amused disbelief. "I'll… think about it."

He watched her leave the room and grinned broadly, calling out after her. "What's there to think about?"

At the sound of shoes shuffling around and his front door closing, he lay back tiredly and with a sense of accomplishment, letting the conversation wash over him.

A pall-like silence soon descended over the mansion.

The maid had left hours ago, and his secretary and personal chefs were on their way out.

He hated this stillness, this quiet idleness while awake; it were times like these where he felt the cold emptiness of his living space in every bone in his body, becoming distinctly aware that it was too big a place for one man alone to live in. It ate at him and he knew that his nerves would itch and he'd cave to the urge to go on a shopping spree. Heaving a sigh, he suddenly sat up from the table in little more than his speedo, trying to figure out what to do with himself. Macho could not have been more grateful when his phone rang. But he made certain to wait two and a half rings before answering.

"Hey, man…! No, yeah, you caught me at a good time. Just got in. I was really busy today; I had, like, five photoshoots. It was grueling, man, but _so_ worth it."

Macho moved towards the leather couch and flumped down on it, flipping on the television. He left the volume loud out of habit and it was now blasting through the room.

"_Uh-huh. …Yeah_." Images flickered over the screen. "Yeah, so Sasha was practically begging to go out with me today, man! I almost felt bad for her, so I said I'd squeeze her in sometime on Thursday."

Macho broke off, scowling as he caught a glimpse of Little Mac on the news. That face – it reminded him of a kid from Detroit he once knew. Jeremy Owens, the kind of sorry-looking nobody who dressed in hand-me-downs and worked at a burger joint every day after school for chump change.

He was just about to change the channel when something caught his attention.

_"- -this evening, when a vicious fight broke out between seventeen-year old boxing sensation "Little Mac" and two young men, resulting in two arrests and injuries resulting in hospitalization. Reporter Shawna Sullivan was on the scene earlier this evening and joins us with the details... Shawna?"_

_"That's right, Cheryl; I was at the intersection of Argyle Avenue and Yucca street where a fight is said to have happened just before 6:25 PM today."_

Macho leaned forward, mashing the volume on the remote.

The footage cut to a man in a well-ironed dress shirt and with slickly combed back hair. _"Yeah, I saw that kid from the Bronx alright."_ He said with an air of self importance, chewing gum noisily. _"Picked a fight with that Macho fan and it all went downhill from there. Totally bad sportsmanship, man." _Chewchewchew. _"Totally not cool."_

Two grinning teens then appeared on-screen, bumping shoulders with each other. _"They were just goin' crazy, really goin' crazy. Swears were flying and then all these others guys started getting in on it."_

_"Sources say that "Little Mac" was insulted and then pushed. He then struck out and broke the man's nose, which triggered a violent sequence of events. As many as fifteen others got involved. Twenty-three year old Stephen White insists that he was the victim of a vicious attack after a joke was taken the wrong way."_

_"I just told the guy I'm a fan of Super Macho Man, and yeah, I made fun of him a little, but it was just a joke! He went totally berserk!"_

"Macho?" His friend's voice called, sounding far away as Macho kept his eyes glued to the screen, unaware of how hard he was crushing the phone in his hand.

_"We are taking this incident very seriously,"_ said a mustachioed officer with sagging jowls and hard, squinting eyes. "_And we will see to it that all involved will be dealt with accordingly."_

_"Little Mac" was actually seen leaving the police station with his manager, Jerome Louis, just around two hours ago. He refused to comment, although his manager is said to have confirmed that Mac will not be forfeiting the match tomorrow night despite pressures. Super Macho Man was unavailable for comment at the time."_

_"Tensions are high with the long-anticipated match between Super Macho Man and Little Mac being held tomorrow night, which is expected draw a crowd in the hundreds, with even more watching from home. What happened here today was definitely not the fight fans were looking for. Back to you, Jonathon."_

All the tension Sasha had worked to free him of twisted his muscles back into knots.

"Hey… Macho?" The voice at his ear finally snapped him back to reality, insistent and annoying like a whining mosquito. "…Dude? You still there?"

Macho slammed the phone down.


	9. 9

A good night's sleep had a way of putting all problems into perspective.

At least, that's what his mother had told him.

Turning onto his side and away from Doc, Mac had spent half the night staring at the wall through sore, half-lidded eyes, waiting for sleep to creep up on him. He had wanted to believe that his troubles wouldn't seem so bad in the morning, that maybe he and Doc would be able to talk comfortably again, sooner, and that they could even go out for lunch instead of holing up in their room to find some peace and ordering room service as they had last night.

But, Mac had woken up to the reality that a splotch of dirt on a reputation like his couldn't wash off overnight.

* * *

><p>The kid sat up on the bedside, leaning forward and mopping his face with a towel. He had just come back from a brisk jog out in the street, although one much briefer than expected. The paparazzi had ambushed him, quickly working to block off his path as soon as he had stepped out of the lobby.<p>

Stumbling to a halt - his breath catching in his throat - he had pivoted and taken off in the opposite direction, struggling to feign indifference while being pursued on foot and by car. All too aware of where a lack of self-restraint had gotten him, he had heeded Doc's advice and clamped his jaw shut as they hounded him, tearing into him with their callous questions. He fought to push on and doggedly fixed his gaze straight ahead, panting harder, chest squeezing up, his legs feeling like they were dragging heavy chains.

It had been one of the hardest jogs of his life.

Mac flung the towel over his shoulder, ruffling his damp hair half-absently, awkwardly. His trainer was watching TV, his silence feeling like a condemnation. The kid was infinitely grateful, though, that Doc hadn't lectured him last night when he had been more rattled and vulnerable and drained. Instead, he had tiredly asked him if he were alright, how his head was feeling, discussed matters relating to food and later encouraged him to rest up. The hardest part of it all was in not knowing whether Doc was angry with him or not and just keeping it tucked away inside, trying to remain composed and compassionate and understanding in the midst of trouble with less than half a day left before the fight.

He shut his eyes, remembering.

_Gone._

_The bag of jacks was gone._

_The fact worked up a cold throb of panic in the pit of his stomach, sweat breaking out along his backbone. The blanket was tossed, the pillow flung aside. Perhaps he had carelessly misplaced it, that had to be it- -_

_"Where did y'get this?"_

_The kid bristled inwardly at the voice that came from behind, his heart racing as he wheeled around. "Listen… pa…" He tried. _

_"Answer the question!" The man gave the small bag of jacks in his hand a pointed shake before slamming them onto the dresser. "Where d'you get these?" He demanded almost desperately, moving in from the doorway._

_Mac shifted his weight from one foot to another. "Please… can't we… can't we talk about this later? I really ain't in the mood."_

_"You ain't in the mood?"_

_A hand shot out, lightning-fast, and cracked across Mac's face, the other firmly seizing him by the shoulder and jostling him to attention._

_"Now you listen to me when I talk t'you! Do you think this is a joke?"_

_Silence._

_"Look at me! Is this a joke to you?"_

_"...No, sir." Standing rigidly with his arm in a vice-grip, Mac looked back at him with the wide, wary eyes of a small creature ready to bolt._

_Chest heaving, his father half-lead-half-hauled him stumblingly to the bed, forcing him to sit down. Then, gradually, he loosened his hold. "Tell me what's goin' on," He pressed after a long moment, his voice barely dropping to a conversational volume._

_The dizzying shock of the blow was still echoing in his skull when Mac fought to swallow past the knot in his throat to answer, his heart tumbling around like a rock in his chest. "I stole 'em." He croaked. "It's... jus' a bag a' jacks..."_

_"Jesus!" His father sharply threw up his arms and let them slap down at his sides, twisting around as if intending to storm out of the room. "I've… I've got a thief for a son!" But with a fierce, disbelieving shake of his head, he turned back, red-faced, a vein pulsing in his temple. "...How long were you gonna keep hidin' this?"_

_The question hung in the air with the weight of a threat. Head bowed, Mac weakly shrugged a shoulder and rubbed at his nose._

_"What was goin' through your mind, son?" The man gave a strange, mirthless sort of chuckle, folding his arms accusatorily. "Anything? Anything at all?"_

_Lips pinched into a thin line, the kid shook his head in defeat, feeling drained at the prospect of having to explain himself. It was hard enough just lifting his heavy gaze from the floor. But his father wasn't have any of his silence._

_"I'm jus'…" Mac begun, a weary, helpless desperation flickering in his eyes, "I'm jus' tired a' havin' nothin' nice!" As soon as he had blurted it out he realized how pathetic it must have sounded. "I'm tired a' these old clothes and wearin' shoes 'til they get holes n' 'em and' seein' some other people at school have nicer things… They laugh at me!" _

_He sucked in a ragged breath, his voice raw. "You don' know what's like…" Swallowing, he shook his head again, anger coiling hot inside him, grasping for a voice. "If they ain't raggin' on me and callin' me a bum, they're always findin' somethin' else. I can't take it no more, pa. I jus'… I can't."_

_"Nothing?" His father shot back, jabbing a finger at the room itself. "You have a bed to sleep in, food, a roof over your head, a room of your own in this house, and that's nothin'?" Struggling to collect his thoughts, he seemed to be on the verge of tears himself, for an instant, before a stern, hard look entered his eyes. "Now you listen here, son: your mother and I work hard so you don't live out in the streets. Nobody's gonna give a damn about you out there. You want your nice, little useless things? You want these jacks? Go then, go and get a job n' save that money, and see how hard it is, livin' on your own. Then you can talk about havin' nothing!"_

_Mac stared frozenly, slack-jawed. "'M'sorry…" He managed chokingly. He wiped at his face in a brisk, angry motion, looking to his feet again as if he didn't have the right to face his father. "I'll return it… I'll return the stuff tomorrow. I swear! I ain't ever gonna do it again!"_

_Massaging his forehead, his father walked out of the room in a daze._

_"Oh, Mac… baby." His mother was waiting at the door, the back of her hand pressed tremblingly to her mouth. "Oh, Mac." For a long time, it was all she could say._

_He expected her to approach him, to try and soothe him as she always would by stroking his hair or wrapping her arms around him and pressing a kiss to the top of his head, telling him it'd be alright. But she didn't move as if afraid, as if he were a stranger in their house. With an anguished look of betrayal and confusion that made his stomach twist sharply, she looked straight at him. From that day forward, he had never quite been her little baby anymore._

_"We never raised you to be like this," She spoke haltingly, her voice thin. "We all want nice things, but not like this, baby. Not like this. …Where did we go wrong?"_

_"Ma…" He pleaded, weakly, feeling as if he had been punched in the gut._

_"…Is it my fault? Did I coddle you too much?"_

_"Ma… you ain't done nothin' wrong." Mac's throat ached thickly. "I-It's me, okay? It's me." He rose to his feet, tentatively taking a step towards her. "I was stupid. Please don't cry, ma…"_

Mac started slightly when he felt something touch his shoulder and looked up to see Doc, wide-eyed and uncomprehending.

"Hey, son." The man ventured, carefully lifting his hand away and sitting himself down beside the kid, the air in the room thick with things left unsaid.

Mac pursed his lips and shook his head in a moment of frustrated inarticulacy, his Adam's Apple working restlessly in his throat. And then, drawing a quiet, shaky breath, he broke the silence. "That guy in the street - the guy I punched... he said awful things. It was _sick_; it was real sick." The words came slowly and reluctantly, strangled. "I got so mad, I could barely see straight. All I 'member… was wantin' to hurt 'im real bad, and make 'im feel sorry."

Glancing off to one side, he huffed a mirthless, self-deprecating laugh, his expression flat. "Guess that don't make me all that different than those bullies at school."

"D'you really believe that?" Doc leaned forward slightly.

The kid looked down at his calloused knuckles, studying the rippling of tendons in his hands with the infinitesimal movements of his fingers. "...I don' want to."

The answer hung in the air for a moment.

And then he spoke again, his voice rawer than before; but quieter. "I was scared, Doc." He swallowed as if it hurt, as if every word stuck in and scraped his throat like fish bones. It was easier to keep his head down than in Doc's direction. "The guys in the street were really into the fight. They, they were gonna break my arms. Then at the station, I was- -"

Hesitating, Mac blinked, ashamed of how easily his eyes could sting with the threat of tears.

"- -I was afraid I'd… I'd be locked up an' we'd miss the fight. Waitin' in that room, I really… was hopin' t'see you…" He said, choking up on vowels the more he struggled not to, "But I didn't want t'see the look on your face."

The boxer suddenly felt the light pressure of Doc's hand on his trembling back, reassuring. "Don't cry, son. It's alright now; it's alright."

Mac didn't say anything for a while, not trusting his voice to come out evenly. He rubbed his eyes hard with the back of one hand. "I m-messed up bad." He said, after clearing his throat. "'m sorry. It's 'cause a' me that you're stuck in this room and people're givin' you trouble."

"I know you're sorry, son. _Trust me._" Louis answered mildly, trying to inject a bit of levity into the conversation. "And I'm sick of bein' stuck in this room, too. But I don't need you to tell me you're sorry. I just need you t'promise me you won't ever do this again. And I know you can do that, son." He shifted his position to face his protégé, the bed dipping creakily under his weight. "Listen. I know it ain't easy, but you gotta try and keep it together for the match tonight. Remember why we're here, Mac baby; remember that courage an' heart that got you this far."

He looked into Mac's face for any hint of a smile. "You'll drive yourself crazy if you keep beatin' yourself over the head. You're a good kid."

Despite refusing to answer to the paparazzi while on his jog, the damage had already been done. Mac had come across newsstands filled with freshly printed tabloids, the same papers and magazines that presented him as a nice boy with teen-heartthrob potential now feeding to the Californian public the image of a temperamental New Yorker. He had seen the words, "Little Mac Attacks!" plastered on the cover of one of the magazines in bolded, bright font and below had been a shot of him taken from the midst of one of his bouts. His eyes fierce, teeth gritted.

It had made his gut churn to see it.

"That ain't what people here been sayin'."

"They don't know you, Mac," Doc insisted, "These tabloid writers, they'd make a monster of their own mothers if it'd make their magazines fly off the racks. You can't fight 'em. All you can do is not let 'em get to you."

Bad news had the tendency to spread like an infectious disease. Mac winced inwardly. He could only wonder what his landlady or Mr. Johnson and the others he knew back home would think of him now.

_'But he was always such a good kid…'_

_'I knew there was something about him…'_

He let out a breath heavy with helpless indignation, with resignation, his lids drooping. "…This ain't fair."

"Hey... life ain't fair, son – life ain't fair. You know that."

The fact sat heavily inside Mac. A long, deep silence followed.

"Now I don't mean that in a mean way. It's just how it is."

"...I know, Doc."

Doc rested his hands over his thighs, gazing thoughtfully into empty space. Then, after a moment, he said, "Did I ever tell you how I lost my belt? I can't remember if I did."

Mac turned to look at him, forgetting his present discomfort at meeting Doc's eyes when he shook his head, frowning.

"Well, let's see. It was back in 1956…" Louis began. "I'd been defending my title for two years, by then. Hadn't had much trouble. Then came that heavy-hitter, Mosley. Peter Mosley. We were fightin' in his home city that night. It was a close fight, a real close fight. I 'member it like it was yesterday."

The kid had heard of Doc and Mosley's bout, but never in any great detail. Sucking absently on his lip, he waited for the man to continue, listening with rapt attention.

"I lost by split-decision." A wry half-smile played the man's lips as he lingered on the thought. "They don't got that in the WVBA, as you know. I wouldn't have been half as upset if the judges came to that decision fairly. Turns out they had a little _incentive, _just in case."

The kid straightened, eyes rounding in surprise. "They were bribed?"

"The association did some investigating – they thought it smelled a little fishy – and that's what they found out." Doc explained. "Mosley's manager had wined and dined the three of them and left a little extra in their pockets as a nice reminder. One of the judges didn't want anything t'do with it, at least, and didn't play along. But it didn't matter what the world found out. I never got that belt back."

"Man…" The thought of people, of hardworking people's careers and hopes and dreams being toyed with and crushed as the result of shady, back-alley deals worked Mac's blood into a boil. "That ain't right…"

"You should have seen me! _Woweee_! I was pissed like you would not believe. Bet if you ran into me back then, kid, you'd never know it was me. 'Course, I was not as fully-rounded a fighter then as I am now, _hahaha_."

As Doc's laughter faded into silence and a look of weary acceptance settled over his features.

"How'd you get over somethin' like that?" Mac asked.

"There's no quick-fix. You just do, son. You just do. I let it go... 'cause it'd have really destroyed me if I hadn't."

The man paused, contemplating the raw power in those words, contemplating in what ways his life would have been different had the belt remained in his possession for another year or two.

Mac looked back at his hands, running his fingertips absently over his knuckles.

"What I'm trying to say here, son… is that you're a kid with a bright future ahead of you. It ain't easy, dealing with something like this when you're as young as you are. I get that, Mac. But you keep carrying this bitterness and anger with you and it'll eat you alive. …Like one of those alien things from that movie we were watchin' a few weeks ago. Y'know what I mean." He watched the boy meaningfully. "...D'you know who helped you out of jail?"

"You?"

"I only picked you up, son."

"Then...?"

_"Strangers_." Doc said, after a beat. "Enough of them came forward and made a case that you were provoked. And that officer? He coulda taken your prints and your photo - he coulda had you charged and locked up if he wanted to. No matter how bad or unfair a situation is, it ain't the end of the world. Just 'cause you're hearin' a lot of bad things right now, don't mean that there aren't some people out there who still believe you're an alright kid and who still give a damn. It ain't just you, or you n' me against the world, either, Mac – it never is."

Mac blinked and raised his head.

"I want you to think about that, son, when you walk down to that ring tonight." Knitting his brows, he tried to decipher the slow, thoughtful shifting of Mac's eyes from side to side. "...Can you do that for me?"

At last, the beginnings of the little smile Doc had been hoping for appeared. But it didn't reach the kid's eyes.


	10. 10

The WVBA stadium was filled to bursting point, tension crackling in the air with the countdown to the main event at ten minutes. In the dressing room, time raced twice as fast.

Mac could not have stood still for long if he tried. The impending bout with Super Macho Man, that was one thing. An attempt at mental preparation last minute was a battle in itself.

Bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, he cocked his head from side to side and rolled his shoulders smoothly, blowing out air in hard puffs as he shook out his hands. Doc had taped them up nice and comfortably snug, providing ample support without limiting movement of his fingers and thumbs. His arms still felt a little stiff and he swung them vigorously from side to side, then crossing them over his chest and stretching them backwards, muscles rippling visibly under his skin.

He had experienced this level of queasy anxiety before, of course. A dozen times at the very least considering some of the experience he had had at a few clubs back home before going professional. But the wait never became any less maddening. He guessed this was something similar to what he would feel while pacing over a suspension bridge for a long moment and peering over the side, just wrestling with his nerves for a good five minutes before finally leaping off with a bungee cord trailing behind him, his heart and stomach lodging in his throat.

It's a pretty good comparison, he decided. With every match it was like being made to jump from a higher height. Bungee jumping: now there was something he wanted to try in his lifetime. Surely the anticipation-sickness couldn't be any worse.

Mac glanced at himself in the mirror, appraising his physique. And in an instant all the sparring, shadowboxing, aerobics training, and endurance training he had devoted himself to over the months felt like it was non-existent - and that no amount of preparation would ever be enough.

It was his head playing tricks on him. He knew this by now.

_"What are tryin' to do?"_

_"A boxer? Use your brain, son… that's why you have one."_

_"It ain't that we got no faith in you, but, look… let's be realistic. Some people have what it takes - and you don't. It ain't right for you. But that don't mean y'can't do other things… Study hard and start a business. It'd be nice, workin' for yourself, don't you think?"_

Closing his eyes, Mac inhaled slowly, mindfully, and held it in for a moment. The stability, self-control and clarity of mind he needed now were hinged on drawing from the wellspring of power deep down in his core, and breathing from that place – not from his chest. Doc had taught him that. Emptying his lungs smoothly and letting the air slide out of him, he breathed in again with the same conscious effort at relaxing…

_In and out._

It was difficult, under pressure.

"Hey, kid."

Mac felt Doc nudge his arm gently. His eyes slid open and looked at him, alert albeit calmer as if he had woken up from a restful sleep.

"It's almost time," He said, with a half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Mac's gloves were slung over the man's shoulder. "How you feelin'?"

The kid offered his right hand first to be fitted into the glove and laced up. "Well, feel like I'm this close to crappin' bricks…" He sniffed, cracking his own grin after a moment. "But I think I'm as ready as I'll ever be, Doc."

* * *

><p>Panning his gaze across the arena, Macho saw the restless shifting of spectators in their seats in semi-darkness and the cameras flashing like hundreds of twinkling stars and knew he was right where he belonged. At the centre of this microcosmic universe.<p>

Stomping around the ring, he threw himself into every lunge and flexed his muscles, high on the heady rush of adrenaline. To bask in the hard shine of the spotlight and to be surrounded by a cheering crowd was what that Jeremy kid had always dreamed of, but it was _Super Macho Man_ who had made it there, _Super Macho Man_ who had achieved what Jeremy never could. Now if only he had had acquired such fame when he had been _seventeen_, Macho mused while willing a grin on his face that appeared fiercer than he meant it to.

No one had objected to Macho's desire to step into the ring twenty minutes early. It made for a good pre-fight show, and ultimately, entertainment was what the WVBA cared for the most. But, at last, this attraction was at its end.

While striking his most flattering pose, a collective low howl of disapproval filled the stadium. That couldn't be right. He snapped to attention with a growl, his _mellow_ most certainly _harshed_, and shot a glare from across the ring. Slicing through the shadows, the beam of a second spotlight found and shone over the young boxer making his entrance.

The light caught Mac's eyes as he stepped forward with a sinking feeling in his stomach as if he were walking across a dangerously rickety bridge. The stadium, with its rows upon rows of seats, spread wide before him and the flash photography briefly illuminated a few of the scowling, unfriendly faces turned his way, a chorus of boos pressing in against him.

Doc rushed to his rescue. "Remember what I told you, _baby_." A hearty slap on the back urged him on. "This is your night, son. Y'hear? Your night. These fans just don't know it yet."

The walk felt like the longest of his life, as if the ring were pulling back into the distance as he advanced. But he just shut his eyes and breathed as slowly and as deeply as he could manage, trying to find that stillness within himself. Because the worst would always pass, Doc said; It had to pass.

When he opened his eyes they were by the ringside. Doc lifted the ropes for him and he rolled into the ring, rising to his feet.

Macho leaned against the turnbuckle, nostrils flaring and his chin disdainfully pushed out. Everything about him was fierce from the look in his flinty eyes to the amused, scornful quirk of his upper lip.

Though Mac felt the man's barely-controlled fury like a powerful blast of heat, he stood his ground and set his jaw, gloves raised. And as his nervousness faded, forgotten, the gut-wrenching fear and the frustration he had wrestled with in the past twenty four hours transformed into determination. A fiery, angry determination to prove to these people that he had struggled with Doc every inch of the way to make it as far as he had. That he was _someone_.

The referee and the announcer slipped inside the ring.

"Ladies and gentlemen - - welcome to the World Circuit bout at here at the WVBA Stadium in Hollywood, California. Now, for the event of the evening…" The announcer paused deliberately, scanning the whistling, enthusiastic crowd. "Introducing first- -"

He hesitated, again, this time on account of the hard look from Macho he caught from the corner of his eye.

"Introducing _first_, in the blue speedo, weighing in at two hundred and forty two pounds – with a record of thirty-five wins, twenty-nine knock outs, and one loss – the defender of the #1 rank in the World Circuit – _SUPER … MACHO… MAAAAAAAN_!"

"Yeah!" Macho roared, rewarding his fans with some vigorous bicep-flexing, his oil-slickened, bronzed skin shining under the light. The stadium swelled with cheering applause.

The announcer waited with the obvious expectation that Macho would invite him to continue. But when that didn't happen, he cleared his throat and pressed on. "And in the far corner, the challenger from the Bronx, wearing the black tank and green trunks with red trim, at one hundred and seven pounds, and a record of eleven wins and zero losses, _Liiiiiiittle Maa- -_"

The microphone flew from the announcer's hand as he was sent staggering into the ropes, clubbed aside by Macho's beefy arm. There was only so much in the way of boring formalities the superstar could take.

Mac flicked an incredulous glance towards the pale, shaken announcer who was being helped out of the ring, and then back at his carelessly grinning opponent swaggering his way towards him, feeling his backbone go rigid.

"I'm totally going to put you in a whole new world of pain, dude." Macho said, baring his teeth in a cruel parody of a smile. "That face of yours isn't gonna be pretty for long."


	11. 11

At the bell, the kid felt a familiar sense of exhilaration surging through every fibre of his being, his body charged with more than adrenaline. Macho didn't keep him waiting. The supermodel opened with a jab to the face meaning to end it there.

Everything Mac had learned, all his training boiled down to this moment. But in the heat of the moment there was little room to think intently on the _sweet science_ of defense and attack. He instinctively stepped to the right, forgetting to flinch as he felt the leather glove brush roughly against his cheek, and threw a hook meant for the nerve cluster of Macho's solar plexus. But the supermodel caught the blow on his gloves.

"Nice try!" The man sneered, sinking into a deep knee bend as Mac swung at him again. A blank look flashed across the kid's face as his missed his target – but before he could move out of range, an uppercut caught him with his mouth slightly open. Juddering his skull, it sent a blurry ripple through his vision, his saliva-soaked mouth guard flying into the air. The crowd hollered as Mac staggered backwards, just barely recovering his balance. In the corner, the referee stood by, unconcerned.

"Dance around his punches, baby!" Doc shouted above the din. "Dance an' knock this sucker out!"

"Oh, I'll make him dance, _old man_." Macho scoffed, closing the distance between him and the Bronxite in a single, lunging step. Rising up from the opposite side, his fist arched with a ferocious speed towards the underside of the boy's chin. And with firecrackers still bursting behind his eyes, throbbing blindingly bright, Mac managed to weave out of the way, desperately focusing his energies into a swift counter-attack. A vicious left to Macho's exposed ribs made the man's mouth gape. Seizing his chance, the kid followed up with a cross, digging his glove fiercely into the boxer's gut.

Even as he felt himself crumple at the middle, Macho tried to swat Mac aside. But the instant the man felt a fist smash flush into his broad, jutting chin with more strength than he expected, a switch in his brain flicked off and on and he wavered drunkenly, toppling to the mat with a crash. All two-hundred-and-forty-two-pounds of him.

Stepping back guardedly, his nerves prickling with readiness, Mac took a moment too long to process what had happened as the referee edged in and began counting. He couldn't suppress that premature rush of excitement inside him but he managed to keep it off his face as his attention shifted to the furious, insistent ache of the punch his foe had landed, a deep soreness underlying the burn.

The spectators didn't quite mirror Mac's sentiments. Howls of dismay and cautious cheering carried across the stadium.

A sense of urgency and purpose jolted Macho to his senses and out of his daze, his eyes flying open. There was no way in hell he'd let some snot-nosed punk from the Bronx mess with his fans, take him down once, and get away with it. Hollywood was watching. The _world_ was watching. With a mad, ox-like strength, he grit his teeth and pushed to his feet, a few stray white hairs having escaped his ponytail. He shot the kid a resentful look - but one that gave way to a smug little smirk. With an irresistible flex of a bicep, he rocked his fist and threw his body into a wild haymaker as Mac approached, the kind of punch with the brutal power to snap a flyweight's neck like kindling.

_Move_, Mac urged himself desperately, breaking into an icy sweat. Hair-trigger reflexes kicked in last minute and he ducked sharply, feeling the scalp-tingling rush of pure force behind the attack that brushed past him. And just as he swung up his head, Mac caught Macho's expression transforming into one of stunned, wide-eyed disbelief too exaggerated to be anything but comical.

The kid had dodged his very best move. It had been nothing but pure luck, pure- -

"_Bogus!_" He bellowed, whirling a full one hundred and eighty degrees.

When he twisted himself around to face forward, his jaw suddenly met the boy's fist. Spit sprayed out of his mouth, his knees turning to trembling jelly. But, he anchored himself in place this time, snarling as he was tagged twice more in the chest. A furious backhand intended for the kid's face struck Mac's shoulder instead. It hit him like a flying medicine ball and Mac stumbled, unintentionally lining himself up for a punch that nailed him right in the forehead. The bell rang just as his head whiplashed, droplets of sweat splattering the ring.

* * *

><p>Eye contact was broken reluctantly, the boxers retreating to their corners.<p>

Macho remained standing and slung an arm over the ropes, deciding he had more than enough energy to wink at and chat up a few ladies he spotted in the front row.

Huffing, Mac dropped onto his stool and closed his eyes a moment as he leaned back against the turnbuckle. Doc swiped the towel from around his own shoulders and stepped into the ring with the referee's permission, acting as a corner man and a fight doctor for lack of any. He dried Mac's bruised face and his neck with brisk but careful dabbing motions, wishing he had had a spare mouth guard on him for Mac's had been trampled on, by now. Unfortunately the kid would have to do without one.

"Took a few rough ones out there, son." He remarked. "Super Macho Man sure can spin like a top. If you ain't careful, he can really make _your _head spin."

"Yeah," Mac agreed between gulping breaths, falling silent as the other unscrewed a water bottle and held the rim invitingly to his cracked lips. It was hard for the kid to restrain himself to a few sips when his body greedily clamoured for more, but Doc helped eliminate temptation by pocketing the bottle. The last thing he needed to deal with when fighting were cramps.

A look of weary gratitude and relief washed over the kid's features. "Thanks, Doc." He sighed, half-wincing at the throbbing of his skull. The blows were just as hard, if not even harder than those Bald Bull had delivered, and punching Macho felt like he was pounding away at a tough wall of meat, making it hard to gauge how much of an effect his attacks had. But there had been a great opportunity to counter right after that one clothesline that could have taken off his face.

"Ten seconds left, baby. You ready?"

Hoping to shake off his brain-fog by sheer force of will, the Bronxite nodded, pumping his gloves together.

He was up only a few seconds later and moving towards the centre of the ring. The moment he met Macho there and the bell rang, galvanizing them both, they dove at each other to the delight of the enthusiastic stadium-goers as if more were at stake in their angry, rapid-fire exchange than prize money and rank and reputations.

An attempt at a _tried-and-true _liver shot was punished with a hook that split Mac's lip and smeared blood-tinged spit across his cheek in a long streak. A missed uppercut was answered with a series of viciously quick jabs that made Macho flinch and his ears ring.

Cameras went off sporadically from all sides.

Panting, the kid kept on his toes - dark hair falling damply over his forehead - ever-searching for the decisive instant to unleash his best uppercut. The Star Punch had become his trademark technique passed down from Doc himself, an aptly named, fearsome move that would often have the opponent seeing stars if properly executed. As powerful as it was, though, it had its risks, being slow to set up and exhausting to perform several times in one bout.

Mac felt his pulse quicken sharply and echo in the hollows of his body when he caught sight of the telling shake of Macho's fist and the way he raised his leg like a pitcher, winding up for a huge- -

Beer bottle?

The kid jerked back in surprise, blinking as something green flashed across his line of sight barely a foot from his face. Hitting the ring with a thump not far from his foot, the bottle went rolling a short distance. He instinctively glanced downwards a split-second, recognizing the danger in stepping on it when focused on more important things- -

And when he swung up his head, he saw a spinning clothesline hurtling straight for his jaw.

Mac threw his upper body low, unconsciously sucking in his breath as the punch shaved by his head, and then sank into a half-squat, back straight, stomach clenched, right arm cocked and tucked to his side, locked into position. His muscles quivered with barely restrained strength, sweat pouring down his sides.

This was it.

Anticipating Macho's need to twist around after his clothesline left him with his back turned, Mac felt his muscles uncock and launched himself off the mat, thrusting his right arm high into the air to catch the model's prize-winning chin.

A cringing tension gripped the crowd, breaths sucked in.

Everything slowed to an adrenaline-induced crawl, and to Mac, it was like watching someone slam the brakes to avoid a crash and feeling like it took forever for the car to stop. His Star Punch had hit air.

Macho had delayed his turn by half a second - and now moving in, his gold tooth glinting, he threw a second clothesline while the kid was still in mid-leap, his fist like a wrecking ball on the end of a blurring chain.

Mac felt a stab of terror, his mind freezing over - and then a glove was driving into his side with a brutal, near-blinding impact he felt to his teeth. It cut his breath off mid-inhale, crushing it out of his lungs in a hoarse, strangled gasp. And for a split second, he could feel his ribs folding – a realization he registered as an icy twinge through his brain – before the full force of the punch flipped him sideways like a limp ragdoll and flung him towards the mat. The last thing he saw before the world tilted upside-down in his vision was a glimpse of Macho's face, glowing with triumph.

A collective gasp arose as Mac's body slammed bonelessly against the ring. Unconscious, it seemed. Until a short, ragged scream burst from him, one that died as a keening whine in the back of his throat. There was an explosion of pain not like the steady aching of his face and skull. It sliced through his disoriented haze like a shaft of too-bright light, burning sunspots into the backs of his eyelids as he pinched them tightly, too aware of the hot prickle of tears gathering at the corners. A reflex he couldn't fight.

Resting his hands on his hips, Macho could only roll his eyes as the referee looked to the fallen boxer a moment, almost curiously, before beginning the count. "Why even bother?" The model jeered, rolling the empty beer bottle out of the ring with a nudge of his foot.

_1_

2

Mac tentatively uncurled, a strained, shaky moan issuing from his clenched teeth.

_3_

4

Up - - he had to get up- -

Though his head was still reeling, he doggedly propped himself up on an elbow, feeling a fierce, icy sweat breaking out between his shoulderblades. His heart was drumming too hard, too fast.

_5_

6

7

Then, climbing to his knees- -

_8_

- - he groped for the ropes and struggled to haul himself up the rest of the way, a shudder rippling through his groin as he tensed and pushed up off his left foot. His rubbery legs wobbled as he rose to his full height.

_9!_

Macho's eyebrows shot up when Mac came at him adopting an orthodox stance with visible discomfort and reluctance. Gone was the kid's fire, it seemed. He ducked his head and sluggishly raised his gloves, barely able to lift his left arm more than a few inches.

"Bummer!" The model's voice dripped with mock-sympathy. "But don't worry - I know what'll make you feel better, dude. Check _this_ out!"

And while drawing back a thick arm for a finisher…

- Mac blinking hard, bracing himself -

…Macho was interrupted by the bell.

"No!" He howled, stomping once for good measure and shooting the bell-ringer a peevish look. But rules were rules.

* * *

><p>Shuffling away into his corner and too lost in a haze of pain to feel very grateful, the kid grasped the ropes and eased himself down onto his seat, skin gleaming with a film of sweat.<p>

Doc was at his side in a heartbeat, looking him over.

It was easy enough to tell from the jerking of his chest in anguished attempts to sneak in a breath that something was wrong, but it was a nagging feeling deep in his gut that told him that this was somehow different than what had happened with Bald Bull. Knowing the kid's tendency to undermine his injuries to keep his own spirit and confidence high, Louis tentatively reached out, meaning to lift a corner of his shirt just enough to try and gauge how bad the situation was from the bruising. But Mac stopped him, slowly pushing his hand away with one of his gloves.

"Need water." He said, breathlessly.

Reaching for the bottle after a beat, Doc obliged him by offering him a few small gulps, his eyes never leaving the kid's paled face. "_Jesus_, kid." Replaying the knockdown in his mind, over and over, he whiplashed between alarmed disbelief and dread that took him back to that nerve-wracking night in the club years ago, watching Mac stand his ground against 'Crusher' Cohen.

"I can do this." Mac managed, his sides heaving and air puffing in and out of his nose. He nodded dimly as if to convince himself and swallowed hard. "Gonna… gonna fight through the pain, Doc… jus' like you been sayin' in the gym."

"This ain't the gym, son!" The man snapped, jarring Mac to attention. "There's a difference! An' there's more to it than that!" Pausing, he rubbed at his forehead and his throbbing temples as the kid looked on, just needing a moment to think, needing a moment to force a calm he couldn't feel into his voice. "It's about havin' that sense of when t'push and when t'pull back." He continued, sighing. "I know how much this fight means to you, son - you and me both. I want you t'know that I couldn't be more proud of you for coming such a long way."

"Doc…" The kid fixed him an anxious, pleading look. "Doc, don't throw the towel... not now. When, when he... throws another spinnin'- -"

A wrenchingly frustrating sense of helplessness swept over Louis. He was trying to reason with a brick wall. "Listen, Mac," He cut in, desperately, "I thought Bald Bull was crazy... but the way Super Macho Man throws his punches… if he gets you with that clothesline again…"

But he didn't finish. The words tangled up in his throat mid-sentence, taking him by surprise. He looked aside.

Mac tried to pretend he hadn't noticed. "...I know." He wheezed. "But... he won't, Doc. I'm gonna get 'im this time… I jus' know it." His gaze lifted, hopeful. "Y'gotta trust me."

"Mac—" Doc warned.

"Please."

Pursing his lips grimly, the man stared back into those half-lidded, feverishly bright eyes, searching past the pain and the fear, and saw in them a keen, burning hunger. A hunger for air - but more than that, a hunger to pull through, to prove himself.

It was reckless. It was stupid.

But it was Mac.

Doc shook his head. And then he shut his eyes and let out a breath, feeling his body sag with it. Feeling every bit his age as the heaviness of resignation sank deep into his bones. "...Alright, son." He relented, unable to believe he was doing this. "When you go back out there... just make sure you keep that elbow in close to your side, okay?"

The referee stepped in suddenly, urging the kid back onto his feet.

Macho rose from his stool.

Trading glares under sweat-laden eyebrows, the boxers stood before one another, Mac willing himself to be ready with the help of the adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. As his vision began to tunnel on the powerhouse standing before him, the wild cheering vibrating through the arena faded to dull hum, nearly drowned out by the thundering of blood against his eardrums and the sound of his own rough, shallow panting.

Macho was quick to pick up where he had left off, throwing himself into one ruthless corkscrew uppercut after another. The kid bobbed and wheeled around them, feeling as if he were trying to move quickly through water. The last swing clipped his chin and rocked his head back, the spotlight above piercing into his eyes – and then a roundhouse punch came at his left side, aimed to bury deep into his throbbing ribs. Mac caught it on his bicep instead, some of the ferocious impact absorbed. But a choked up noise escaped him all the same, jostled out of him, his eyes pinched shut and stinging wet.

A terrifying sense of nakedness swept through Mac when his eyes snapped back open to see Macho staring him full in the face with a savage, knowing grin. The man's hooks and jabs came faster and fiercer- -

-But by ramping up the aggression he opened himself up to a vicious fist hammering into his already bruised cheek and another smashing into one of his collarbones as Mac desperately fought to get punches in edgewise. The latter threw off Macho's rhythm with a pain that nearly made tears spring to his eyes.

They broke away from each other for just a moment, heaving for air like dogs and sweat streaking down their faces, their gloves spattered with each other's blood. Doc watched tensely from the sidelines.

It had to end.

Too aware of the tingling heaviness invading his body, Mac gave his head a brisk shake and willed himself to focus harder, blinking constantly to keep his eyes from tearing up as he fought to pull in every sharp, hissing breath. Every one felt like a knife twisting into his left lung. He tasted the coppery tang of blood in his mouth.

Macho didn't have to guess what it felt like. He'd been there when he had once attempted dead-lifting a barbell much heavier than he was used to as to impress a pretty airhead, only for it to drop on him from a few inches above – which had been more than enough to crack a rib or two. Breaking into a sweat, he had walked it off with a strained, shaky smile. Not one of his crowning moments, which was why he had simply offered everyone the more respectable explanation that he had injured himself pumping iron a little too vigorously.

"Show's over, dude." Macho huffed, his teeth slimy with blood but for the one in gold. "You'll be tasting the mat for weeks when I'm done with you!"

Rallying the strength for a grand finale to make the history books, he puffed out his bruised chest menacingly and stepped to one side, his lips peeling back into a snarling smile. "SUPER- -!"

Pivoting smoothly, he turned away from Mac and flexed vigorously, basking for a moment in the glow of admiration and flash photography. The people were roaring and whistling for _him_. This was _his_ moment.

"MACHO!" He bellowed, turning in profile and emphatically striking one more majestic pose. "MAAAAAN!"

That mighty right fist rose into the air, rocking – and at last, twisting his head around sharply with a gleefully predatory smirk, he fixed his sights on the young boxer. From the sidelines Doc grimaced at the train-wreck waiting to happen, his white-knuckled fists gripping the edge of the ring. Even if he were to throw the towel now, it wouldn't stop Super Macho Man mid-rampage.

A frisson of alarm shot through Mac, curling his insides into a tightening ball. Even with his brain still rocking with convulsions of pain he had enough presence of mind to slip under his opponent's heavily swinging arm. But just as he sought to close in to counter, the model flung a second haymaker that narrowly missed Mac's nose as he bent backwards.

And another clothesline.

And another, all in rapid succession - and increasingly sloppy - forcing Mac into retreat with every half-step the model advanced.

The referee ducked out of the ring and from the path of the human tornado carelessly whipping around and around with a raging determination to wreck anything in its path.

Wheezing, the kid barely kept on his toes, his attention trained on Macho's face. And just a split second before clumsily bending under the fourth punch, he caught a glimpse of something unexpected. Mac struggled to blink away his own daze.

"Argh!" Macho gave a cry of childish frustration as he wound up for the seventh clothesline. "That's it!" He paused for one huge, surging breath, his eyes crossed and his nostrils flaring bullishly. "You're going down!"

Bracing his side with his left glove, the boy backpedaled, striving to remain cautious and level-headed despite the knee-trembling excitement and the sense of desperate hope bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. But the moment he felt something press into his back, his confidence suddenly dissolved, all the blood seeming to drain out of his body.

The _ropes_.

He stared wide-eyed into empty space, his heart thumping painfully hard as Macho's glove came for him, arcing through the air. His jaw would be smashed to pieces in a moment, unhinged with a sickly wet crack.

Kicking himself into action, the kid swung his head down, flicking sweat onto the mat. Macho's glove grazed his scalp as it swept past, splitting the skin with the laces, and the man's mountainous bulk followed, twirling. But when the model wheeled around again, readying himself to throw another haymaker, he could only raise his arm in a half-hearted threat, his mouth hanging open as he teetered on his feet.

Awareness surged through Mac like a powerful electric current. Though shaky and cotton-mouthed, he was suddenly ready, as ready as he could be - and found himself so possessed by single-minded determination that he didn't hear the groan through his clenched teeth as he bent his knees, reaching deep within himself, and dredged up the very last of his strength, his face tight with strain. Nor did he hear the ragged cry blasting from his lungs as he squeezed his eyes shut and sprung into the air with a powerful pistoning motion of his legs, his right arm launching from his side and slamming squarely into the reeling Macho Man.

It not only flung Macho head back; it knocked that one gold tooth of his out of its socket and sent it spinning into the air.

While tipping backwards, his eyes lolling in his skull, the man threw a blind, clumsy hook in retaliation. Though not half as strong as it could have been, it connected with Mac's vulnerable side with enough force to tilt him some twenty degrees sideways mid-air. The kid's face twisted up into a gasping rictus, but with the wind jostled out of him a second time, he could only give a harsh croak.

The model dropped to the canvas flat on his back – and Mac landed, clumsily, on his right foot, his knee shuddering dangerously for the instant it bore his full weight. He went careening into the ropes and bounced off, stumblingly regaining his footing.

The crowd went into a frenzy.

A deep, lead-limbed exhaustion bore down on Mac and he doubled over, blindsided by agony. Biting down on a scream, he let out a sound somewhere between a moan and an anguished, shuddering wheeze, saliva frothing between his teeth as his breath rushed in and out. It didn't seem like it could be possible to enter a higher stratosphere of pain - but he was there and feeling it clamp down on his brain in angry spasms. Bile churned inside him.

_Please don't puke don't puke don't puke hold on just a little while almost there - -_

_3_

4

Distant sounds drifted through his ears and he raised his head with his mouth hanging open, trying to make sense of it all and suddenly remembering he had floored his opponent. Then he stared at the referee counting from the ringside. He felt a ticklish prickling along his scalp of something crawling through his hair and touched his head, his glove coming back spotted with blood.

_5_

_6_

There was a groan as Macho strained to lift himself off the mat.

_7_

8

Mac set his teeth and prayed, prayed fiercely with every fibre of his being that the guy wouldn't climb to his feet and that the referee would hurry up and count faster and let him go so he could throw up somewhere quiet and lay down, just for a moment. His tank was soaked with sweat, pasted to his back.

9

The model's head dropped back in exhausted surrender, eyes closing, bloodied saliva oozing from the corners of his mouth.

10

"KNOCK OUT!"

Shock rippled through the stadium and hundreds of people jumped from their seats, breaking into a massive, full-bodied outcry. Within half a minute there was trash and half-eaten foodstuffs flying through the air and raining down over the ring. Pelting the canvas; pelting their fallen idol.

Covering his head as best he could, the referee climbed back into the ring and made his way to the boxer left standing – although _standing_ wasn't the most fitting word. While still on his feet, Mac remained hunched over, head hanging low and his hands on his thighs. He didn't resist his right arm being hoisted up high.

This was _his_ moment; his and Doc's. At least, it was meant to be, despite the chaos and the barrage of litter. Mac shut his eyes. The full-throated hollering and applause - all the _noise_ - faded back into his awareness. It was overwhelming, exacerbating the pounding ache in his skull. He wanted to really feel the exhilarating buzz of his hard-won accomplishment; he wanted to look about himself and smile and really mean it - -

"Mac!"

Bent up still, he turned his head towards Doc as the man ducked into the ring and hurried to Mac's side, hands half-outstretched to help but not knowing how. Reluctant to touch him.

After standing there by the ring and questioning at every instant his decision to place his faith in Mac while his own anxiety wrenched him apart, a part of Doc had wanted to feel furious. Furious that he had not asserted himself as a manager and trainer and furious that he had just let the kid have his way when he was struggling just to breathe. But when he stopped and just stared at Mac, the kid looking back with blood dripping down one temple and reddened, glassy eyes, trying failingly to muster a grin for the both of them, Doc's frustration just couldn't hold. He forgot everything else.


	12. 12

After the divorce, Doc had spent longer hours at the gym, as involved with the regulars as ever but determined to keep his distance. It was the professional thing to do, he decided, and he had neither needed nor cared to blur that sharply-defined line between the world within the gym's doors and the world outside them. Boxers didn't need to know his problems and he sure as hell didn't need to know theirs. But somewhere along the lines, Louis had forgotten his own rule. And strangely enough, making that mistake wasn't as terrible as he had thought it would be.

Mac was a good kid.

He paid his dues; he observed the rules of the gym; he didn't give anyone any lip or stop to chat on the floor beyond a casual 'hey, doin' ok?' in greeting. He was also an unusual kid aside from his height. Remarkably naïve and guileless and optimistic for someone who eked out a living in a seedy Hunts Point neighbourhood. And no matter how hard Doc worked him he would return, hurting yet eager to pick up where they had left off. That dream to make something of himself as a young man, as a boxer, that hopeful fire burning deep in his heart might have been the only thing that really kept him off the streets and away from drugs, out of a bad life. The gym was a haven to men young and old, a safe space, a place of order amid disorder and urban decay. It did them a world of good for these hungry fighters to burn their energy in good ways. In good, clean ways.

Doc could see how some trainers could have found Mac's fresh-faced enthusiasm irritating, mistaking it as the look of someone ignorant of the long, arduous climb to the top and hoping to make it big and live easy in a short amount of time. Even now, years later, he was perpetually gauging how fiercely Mac hungered to own that WVBA world circuit belt with every fibre of his being, and to what extent he would fight just for a chance to skim his fingers over it, to see it in the mirror, to hoist it up high into the air with the roar of the crowd blasting his ears. Some fighters got lazier and cockier the higher they rose above. He realized he didn't much need to worry about Mac in this regard, but it was his duty nonetheless as his trainer to test his mettle in preparation of the trials ahead. It was one thing to see the kid showing punctuality at the gym (which was always appreciated), but another thing to put him through a grueling training regimen and watch him shudder and break into a sweat, taking it like a champ even as it wrung a few tears from his eyes. He wouldn't ever spare the kid on account of his age and knew the boxer wouldn't have it any other way.

Mac didn't swear in the gym. It would be in violation of the rules, in any case. But sometimes, while keeping himself tremblingly half-raised on a chin-up bar while Doc took a few shots at his gut, he'd come close. Then there were those one-armed push-ups made worse by the fact that they wouldn't count if his form was improper or if he didn't ease himself down until his chest skimmed the floor. The kid knew that cheating on these meant that he would only be hurting himself in the long run. This was just another part of transforming his body into a well-tuned machine.

"C'mon, stay with me." Doc would say, kneeling next to Mac and looking into his taut, flushed face. "Last one, baby, let's go! You can do it. Show me you can do it."

With his breath puffing in and out through gritted teeth, he'd squeeze his eyes shut and groan, just managing to shove his body up off the floor with a shaky thrust of his arm. Supporting himself with everything he had left in him, he'd wait desperately for a moment's reprieve, trembling.

"Time out!"

At those blessed words Mac would always let himself crumple to the mat as if all his muscles and bones turned to jelly. It made Doc tired just looking at him.

"Now that wasn't so bad, was it? " Louis would laugh, arms akimbo as he rose to his feet. "Hey now, don't tell me I gotta drag you home."

He'd never nudge Mac with his shoes, even playfully. It was a matter of respect.

* * *

><p>Doc felt the boy sling a tired, heavy arm halfway around his back, clumsily trying to get a good grip on him with his thick glove.<p>

"…You ready?" He asked, looking Mac's way.

A dim nod came first; then: "…Yeah."

With the kid to his right - his injured side against him for some stability – they began to make their way from the ring and down the aisle one hobbling step at a time, their gait made that much more awkward by their height difference. Doc paused to kick aside a few cans and crumpled wrappers, aware of the reporters rushing to catch up. Within seconds, a dozen smartly-dressed men and women had formed a horseshoe around them.

"_You just beat Super Macho Man. From the looks of this crowd, this is not what most people expected at all. How do you feel?"_

Mac lolled his head up, his face sallow and shining with sweat, his lips parted. At the question, a faint, apologetic smile curled the corners of his mouth and he managed a breathless chuckle, offering an equally listless nod before letting his chin sink to his chest.

Feeling the boxer's hand clutch a little harder at his windbreaker jacket, Doc leveled a look of stern impatience at the reporters. "Now listen here –" He began, "The only kind of attention this kid needs right now is medical attention, and there ain't one of you here who looks like a doctor to me. So if any one of you are hopin' to do us a favour, step aside."

The reporters looked between themselves.

"…Thought so. C'mon, son."

Unconsciously tucking Mac closer to him, he set his jaw and muscled through them as he had through the paparazzi countless times, ignoring the microphones jabbed into their faces. And as they made a beeline to the corridor leading to Mac's dressing room, the howling and hissing and applause of a crowd clamouring for blood, for a rematch, for a replay of the final, crushing blow that had sent Super Macho Man sprawling to the mat faded to a dull roar.

The hallway was empty and painfully quiet by comparison. Doc could hear the squeaking shuffle of their shoes on the lacquered floor, the water-bottle crinkling in his pocket, the kid's half-stifled grunts with every jostling, reluctant step.

"I won…" Mac mumbled, as if testing out the words. "I won, didn't I?" He asked, his voice thin and shaky.

"…Yeah."

As Doc answered him he realized the collar of his jacket was sticking to his neck, his own heart still thumping viciously fast. "Y'sure did."

A beat passed in solemn silence.

"You… ain't _mad_ at me… are you?"

"What –?" Doc stared at him. "_Mad_?" The man let that sink in before shaking his head incredulously. "Listen, how about you do yourself a favour and save your breath until we get to a cab?"

Quickly deciding that he would pick up Mac's change of clothes tomorrow, he led them on past the dressing room but was forced to stop not far away when the kid bent suddenly, spewing a stream of bile. There was no time to be startled by the abruptness of the convulsions. He just held Mac steady while the rough, semi-wet coughs jolted out of him and he struggled to get a breath in edgewise. He didn't care about the stink of vinegar that hit him strong. The spasms subsided and he rubbed at Mac's back unthinkingly, sensing the boy's slight anxiety over the mess as he did. "Don't worry about it. C'mon now."

There was a vending machine not a dozen feet from the back door. Given his experience in and by the ring, Doc had learned a thing or two about injuries – as well as how to improvise. Digging into his pocket, he jammed a few quarters into the machine and promptly slammed the side of his fist into one of the buttons. After some clanking and rattling inside, a can of pop tumbled out, cold and heavy as a block of ice. He slid his arm from around Mac just long enough to wrap the can in the towel.

"I'll hold onto this 'til we reach a cab, okay?"

Mac nodded faintly.

Using his elbow, Doc pushed through the squeaking back door into thick of night, fresh air chilling the film of sweat on their faces. With street lamps and skyscrapers and billboards aglow, light filling the air like hundreds of Christmas baubles, the place was like Vegas.

In anticipation of all the fans pouring out of the arena, some half-dozen taxis had pulled up on the side. One of the cabbies – a man in his late twenties with a scruffy, sparse beard - was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel with one hand and half-absently toying with a cigarette with the other when Doc and Mac shambled to the rolled-down passenger window. Squinting into the dark at first, he then straightened in his seat as recognition dawned on him, flicking his half-finished cigarette out the window and onto the concrete.

"Hey! Fight's over already?"

Doc couldn't tell if the question had a mocking undertone or not and pried open the seat to the backdoor, encouraging Mac to go in first. Clutching his side, the kid crawled in and cautiously, wincingly eased his way into sitting up, needing his seatbelt to be buckled for him.

There hadn't been the time to unlace his gloves, Doc thought.

Slinging an arm around his seat, the driver twisted around and jerked his chin in the kid's direction. "Who won?" He asked Doc with an expectant grin as the man settled in the back.

"You're lookin' at him."

The cabbie's dark eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "Oh yeah? Heh. Good for him." Then his admiring smirk fell. "Whoa, hold on - - is that blood? I don't want any blood on the seats, man! I just got this cleaned!"

"There ain't gonna be no problem if you jus' _hurry up an' drive_." Doc urged.

The man scowled. "Look, man, I don't care_ who_ you are. I got a business to run. If you're going to give me shit- -"

"This kid's in bad shape and there ain't a single fight doctor in that stadium. He needs to get to the hospital now."

"I got chronic backaches and you don't hear me giving you a hard time about it."

Doc pinned him with an implacable glare. "Look - if he _dies_ 'cause you ain't gotten us to the hospital fast enough, you're gonna be hearin' hell of a lot about it, I promise you that. An' you won't be worryin' about this car no more. Understand? Now take this twenty an' make it quick."

Flushing, the man snapped his mouth shut and snatched up the money, twisting the jangling car keys that were jammed into the ignition.

The car rumbled to life.

After fastening his own belt, Doc leaned in towards Mac to buckle him up. A chill shot through his spine.

There was a sound. A quiet, but a terrible, persistent sound. Not of panting but of _wheezing_, a strained, high-pitched wheezing, as if someone were being strangled. Doc felt his throat go dry, wanting to believe that it was just the car doing all the squeaking as it juddered in and out of ruts in the road. Billy Idol's mellow _Sweet Sixteen_ flowed through the car as the cabbie turned up the volume.

"Hey!" Doc barked sharply over his shoulder, "Would you turn that damn thing down?"

Nothing happened.

With his pulse pounding briskly in his throat, Louis fumblingly undid his belt and ducked his head, bringing his ear to Mac's chest. Amid the sharp, uneven flow of air there was the muffled crackling of God-only-knew-what. Bone; cartilage? But shifting his ear a little further to the left, it got worse. He could barely hear anything at all.

He drew back, certain it hadn't been this bad in the hallway.

Pale-faced, Mac pawed at his seatbelt a little with his glove, making a noise between a croak and a dry cough in some half-hearted attempt to speak.

Doc snapped to attention and took the hint, releasing the buckle. "How's that?"

The kid nodded wearily after too long although his relief didn't reach his features. His Adam's apple bobbled and air whistled in and out his throat, his jugular veins bulging tightly against his skin. He closed his eyes.

Louis raced to get the gloves off Mac's hot, trembling hands, and then passed him the pop-can wrapped in a towel to hold against his ribs in lieu of an ice pack. He then unzipped his jacket and shrugged it off, throwing it around the boy's shoulders. With any luck it would help to ease the shock.

"_Here_ – now I want you to squeeze my arm. Go on."

At first, Mac groped for it as if unsure. But steadily, he tightened his quivering grip, knuckles whitening.

"…Not _that _hard, son, I _need_ this arm." A clumsy, almost desperate attempt at levity. Lord, it was reassuring to know that he still had some strength to him. "That's_ better._ Keep doin' that, and look at me."

Doc met his gaze squarely, holding it steady. Mac's eyes gleamed sharply with pain and fear, mortal fear.

"Now, you're gonna be fine, y'hear me? You're gonna get to the hospital and they gonna fix you. Then I'm gonna get you a real big chocolate bar. We gonna enjoy the sweet, sweet taste of victory, baby."

Flinging his head over his shoulder, he asked, "…Hey, how much longer?"

"Just past this light."

"Hear that? Just hang on, baby. Just a lil' while longer, an' don't you close those eyes on me. ...Hey, c'mon now. Mac?"


	13. 13

Slipping in and out of consciousness, Mac wasn't sure when he had been hoisted up onto a flat surface or when he first noticed the ring of unfamiliar, tired faces looking down on him, each absorbed in concentration. Masks and gowns and gloves.

He shifted restlessly, his eyes lolling around the room.

_Doc- -_

_where was Doc- -?_

The glare from the light fixture above pierced his eyes, burning spotty patterns into his retinas, and the harsh brightness of it only seemed to intensify with every throb of his nerves. A moan escaped him – a low, miserable sound – between gulps for air, the right side of his chest heaving fitfully. It took all he had just to fight another dizzying surge of panic as he lay there, shaking and shaking, with his heart thundering hard and the pain thrumming through him in counter-rhythm.

His eyes pinched shut. It felt like his left side had just caved in entirely and he was just barely surviving, fiercely sucking in air through a straw. At his sides, his fingers felt cold and thick, tinglingly numb. They clawed restlessly for something – _anything_ to hold - and closed around nothing, nails slicing into his palms.

Was he dying…? Was this what it was like before people died?

Someone was cutting open his tank top, pulling it away, and a plastic mask cupped his nose and open mouth, his head gently lifted as someone adjusted the strap around it.

Pure oxygen. The mask fogged, the bag on the end of it puffing up.

In and out; in and out.

_Better_.

That was better.

His tension gave, inch by inch – and cracking open bleary eyes after a while, he gazed up at the faces around him with an open, trusting, dully pleading look, wanting to be seen as more than just a body with a problem to solve, as more than just some case study. Needing a personable little smile or a touch on the arm, a small, gentle reminder that he wasn't alone in a room full of people. But even in his anxious daze he had enough presence of mind to know he was just one of hundreds of people they had seen and would be seeing tonight. He had made it past the waiting room.

Gloved hands palpated his throat, the latex feeling smooth and alien against his skin as they slid downwards, pushing and probing. He jerked viciously and his arm shot up when fingers dug into his injured ribs, a strained, angry noise half-muffled by his mask.

"Keep his arm down." An authoritative voice ordered, clipped with urgency.

It was pressed down to the table.

"We need you to relax."

Swallowing dryly and feeling sweat forming in little pin-pricks at his hairline, Mac's eyes blinked open again, stinging. He bristled when he felt pressure at his side – a little more careful this time, but no less decisive and purposeful – shallows breaths jerking in and out of him as his body instinctively tried to tilt itself away.

And then, at last, the fingers lifted away, replaced by a stethoscope. It burned like dry ice as it pressed into his left side, then the right; and again, lower, left and right, left and right.

The doctor lifted it from around her neck, glancing aside. "Confirming a tension pneumo with _thoracentesis_; need a 14 gauge angio-cath, please_."_

There was motion in the room, the delicate rattling of implements and the crinkling of a plastic pouch being torn open. Mac's skin was briskly cleaned with a cool antiseptic wipe. He caught a whiff of wintergreen.

Within seconds the doctor was pressing deep under his left collarbone with her thumb before angling a needle just over the third rib. It resembled the ink tube inside a pen, but metal and cut off at an angle.

Mac didn't have the chance to brace himself. Nearly as soon as he saw it the point was already piercing his skin, stopping the breath in his throat as it sank through muscle and the stinging pinch deepened. Doubling his hands into white-knuckled fists, he groaned, too tense to think, to move - -

Until there was a pop, a rush of air, as if from a punctured tire. And then an incredible, almost instantaneous relief. The needle slid out and the catheter remained in place, looking like the plastic end of a thumbtack.

For a good half-minute, Mac's entire existence was devoted to appreciating the sudden release of crushing pressure. He stole deep, greedily hungry breaths, deeper than his wounded body would much allow. It was good. His muscles ached with strain and exhaustion and it hurt, an angry, thrumming kind of hurt. But the air was raw and good, unbelievably good.

In and out; in and out.

He offered the medics a look of weary, profound gratitude. It was the most he could do.

* * *

><p>It was abubble of air, a nurse had explained in simpler terms to Doc, outside, while Mac was being cut open.<p>

One wouldn't think much of something like that. But, here was a bubble of trapped air that had been growing and growing, slowly albeit steadily killing the kid with the building pressure it placed on his heart and lungs.

Doc hadn't even guessed.

_The Killer Air Bubble_, he thought grimly. It almost sounded like some sort of cheeseball black and white sci-fi films. He made a mental note to share this joke with Mac when he came to.

"Try to get some rest," The nurse suggested. "You should be able to see him in the morning."

* * *

><p>This proved to be more difficult than Doc had expected. He caught sleep in half-hour snatches until six in the morning when, at last, his body surrendered to the exhaustion washing over him in waves and he went out like a light.<p>

He stirred with a slight jerk, unfolding his arms and casting a bleary-eyed glance at his watch for what felt like the tenth time in five minutes. Blinking, he brought the numbers into better focus.

_10:12 AM._

The halls were brightly lit, and there was more activity now. The brisk, punctuating _clackclackclack_ of heels on linoleum tiles, physicians in sterile white coats drifting in an out of rooms, flipping through papers on clipboards and engaging in idle chatter. The odd laugh of a nurse or an intern pierced the air, seeming misplaced.

Doc rubbed at his face.

A fog was wrapped around his brain, his bones aching and heavy from spending the night in a plastic chair. He rose with a groan, bracing his lower back with a hand. His eyes felt tired, his skin felt tired. Hell, the hairs on his head felt tired.

After wolfing down a sandwich and salad from the cafeteria and washing it down with coffee, he stumbled along hallways with still-rubbery legs to speak with the ICU receptionist, the contents of his stomach shifting uneasily with worry.

Doc provided Mac's name in full.

"I was hoping I could visit him." He explained to the woman at the desk. "I came in with him last night."

"Wait here, please; I will have a look and let you know if he would like to see you now."

Resigning himself to a nod, the man took a seat, increasingly aware of his racing pulse deep in his gut as he gazed unseeingly into space, his knee bouncing restlessly.

After what seemed like an hour, she returned. He glanced upwards, searching her face for any trace of bad news.

"He's awake and he would like to see you. Please keep this initial visit to ten minutes at the most."

* * *

><p>The door of the room he was lead to was slightly ajar.<p>

Smoothing out his wrinkled shirt, Doc gently knocked on the open door and poked his head in before stepping in.

While this wasn't the first time he had visited Mac in a hospital bed, this was different, the circumstances under which he had been hospitalized more severe than before. He didn't know how to expect to find the boy, really – and although the receptionist hadn't warned him of anything, Doc felt uneasy about what ugly details he might be forced to confront as he approached the bed.

"Hey, son."

Turning his head to look at him, a slow, tired grin played Mac's lips, his eyes dimly lighting up. He lazily lifted a hand in greeting. "Yo Doc." His voice was low and hoarse with disuse.

Doc pulled up a chair, offering a rueful smile. "How y'feelin'?" He asked, as he sank into the seat by the bed, scooting in closer. "How's the pain?"

To his relief, beyond a few bandage strips on his face, stitches on his lip, and some purplish swelling around his cheekbone, the kid was entirely recognizable. A rumpled blanket was drawn up to his waist, revealing a large area on his side wrapped with gauze and pressure bandages, and a tube disappearing underneath.

"Hurts." The kid answered, letting out his breath in a weak chuckle.

"Fair enough." Doc laughed. "That was a dumb question."

It seemed like it would be a long time until he'd hear it again, the sizzle-slap of the rope whistling through the air and snapping against the hardwood floor, the machine-gun _thumpa-thumpa-thump_ of Mac working the speedbag with the ferocity of a grown man.

"Nah." Mac then paused briefly, pinching his eyes shut against a sudden surge of pain before pressing on. He spoke slowly when he was ready, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy. "Only takin' these tiny breaths, y'know? Everythin' y'do, you keep feelin' that tube jiggle in you. The whole time when they were puttin' it in, I was thinkin', maaan, I'm _really_ gonna feel that t'morrow, ain't I? No kiddin'."

Sniffing a little, he broke into a thin smile, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. "Could be worse, though. The puddin' I been getting… that's the best. Nurses come 'round, an' they even replace the cup if it gets warm an' you ain't eaten it yet. …Want some a' mine?"

Closing his eyes, Doc shook his head in amusement. "You keep it."

The man often wondered if most trainers felt this way about their boxers. If they felt this close. But he wasn't sure how he felt whenever Mac looked at him searchingly, looked for a father in him. It wasn't his business, Doc had told himself back in the day. Mac wasn't his son and he wasn't his dad. But when Thanksgiving Day rolled around in '84 and the sense loneliness in his gut had only deepened, he had decided on a whim to extend an awkward invitation to Mac. Spending it together had since become something of a tradition for them, for neither had anywhere else to be, or anyone else to be with. Maybe he would give Jackson another try, when Mac was well. Call him and hope that they could just talk for a few minutes. Call him and hope his son wouldn't hang up at the sound of his voice. Maybe one day he would even introduce him to boxing, if the boy was interested.

"Hey..." Mac studied Doc's face a little more closely and saw the haggardness etched deep, the sagging skin around his eyes. "Y'look real tired. ...I'd move over if I could."

An irrepressible bark of a laugh burst from Doc, louder than intended. "...What are they puttin' in that IV, son?"

"Iunno. Whatever it is, it runs out real quick."

The man searched Mac's expression, sensing restlessness and honesty behind a faint smile and a mask of tiredness. Sobering, he pushed down on the armrests of his chair, starting as if to get up. "D'you want me to get you somebody?"

Letting his eyes fall shut, the kid gave a barely perceptible shake of his head as the other looked on in an uncomprehending silence. For a moment, there was only the rhythmic bleeping of machinery.

"They can't give me no more right now. They don' want me takin' too much. They been saying too much ain't good for my breathin' neither."

Louis surrendered to his helplessness and sank back into his seat with heavy reluctance. "I'm gonna have a chat with one of those nurses and see."

As their conversation hit a speedbump, a grim, uncomfortable awareness of Mac's mortality thickened in the air between them. Doc suddenly willed a joke. "You keep windin' up here, son, and we'll be broke even with all that prize money you got. Heh, I bet Macho will be seein' stars for weeks after what you did to him."

Instead of grinning, Mac narrowed his eyes in a strained attempt to think. "Macho?" He echoed, as if the name were foreign to him.

"Yeah…"

"Nah… Nah, Doc. I fight 'im tonight, remember?"

Doc reared back as if he had been struck and he stared dumbly for a moment, frowning, before shaking his head. "No, son… you already did, last night. That's what got you here, right? Y'got hurt in the ring."

A beat passed; then another. Blinking, the boy's eyebrows pinched together, his troubled, clouded gaze turning inwards.

"We were in the taxi last night…" Doc insisted before pausing to focus on the other's gaze, seeking that flicker of recognition that would set him at ease. "You were breathin' like y'had asthma."

Mac looked back at him in a slow, considering way. "…Yeah."

The bottom of Doc's stomach dropped out. "You don't remember, do you?" It came out more a heavy statement than a question.

Apologetic, the kid lowered his eyes.

* * *

><p>Doc left the room distractedly - his hand sliding off the knob behind him – only to snap his head up as a nurse approached the door. He stopped her with a look.<p>

"Is he gonna be okay?" He asked. His voice was low, his gaze searching her face.

"Typically, we keep thoracotomy patients in for three to five days; it depends on how long it takes to suction out air and fluid from the chest." She inclined her head sympathetically. "But it will take about six weeks or so for him to make a full recovery from the surgery."

"No… that ain't what I mean." Faltering, Doc pulled in a breath. "Is he gonna be okay- - "

The nurse knit her brows, but didn't interrupt.

"...Is he gonna be okay, up _here_?" He gestured upwards, at his head, in a brisk motion. He didn't want to have to say a head injury, a brain injury; he didn't want to have to imagine a seventeen year old with his life swirling down the drain.

* * *

><p><em>Patients react differently to morphine<em>, she had explained, once she had understood. _Confusion is not an uncommon symptom. Give him a few days. He will be weaned off soon._

Good, he mused.

Good.

Thank God.

It was deeply exhausting, waiting and waiting and waiting in restless suspense for the moment when he could finally heave a sigh in relief. There was a constant dull ache in his chest and time couldn't pass quickly enough. He lost count of the candy bars he devoured despite a lack of appetite.

After heading home for a _real_ nap (and dropping into bed like a sack of bricks,) he returned in the evening to the ICU receptionist's desk for another visit.

The kid's attention was fixed on some arbitrary point at the side of the room, his half-lidded stare unblinking, almost lobotomic. "Didjya talk to her?" Mac asked softly, but with a thread of urgency running through his voice.

Doc paused, cautious. "The nurse?"

"Ma. My ma. She came. She really- -" Breaking off, the trembling corners of his lips pressed into a fragile smile that was fading as soon as it had appeared. "She came by t'visit, but she jus' left a little while ago." Swallowing rawly, he looked to Doc. "But she didn' wanna talk. ...Iunno. Maybe she was angry or somethin'." He chewed on his lip, his throat moving. After a moment he attempted an uncomfortable one-shouldered shrug.

"I don't think she was angry, son."

"...You saw 'er?"

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, the man glanced off towards the window. It was a while before he could bring himself to respond. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

The pauses between their exchanges lengthened and deepened. The kid lay there, his chest rising and falling shallowly, his face absorbed in dully anxious thought.

"Did she say anythin'?" He asked in a murmur after half a minute, his voice thick with longing.

Doc shut his eyes, his face softening with more than weariness. "… She said she's proud of you."

"Yeah?"

"...Yeah."

Mac nodded dimly after a moment and lay back to rest with a ruffle of sheets, seeming to breathe a little easier.


	14. End

He cracked open his eyes, lids burning as he blinked away the bleary film and stared at the ceiling, trying to bring it into focus. The pull of sleep was magnetic, his brain sluggish as he tried to place what day it was amid a string of drug-blurred days and lapses in time. He gave up, hearing himself groan under his breath while attempting to roll over. Then the pain came with all the subtlety of being kicked by a horse – or, at least, what he guessed being kicked by a horse was like.

"_Whoa_- -" A disembodied voice cut into his thoughts. "Take it easy, son."

Squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for the angry throb to even out was an exercise in patience. But when he could open them again he took stock of his sterile, Spartanly furnished room, curtains drawn open to the midday sun and a small bouquet of flowers sitting neatly over the end table. There was a hand curled around the rail of his cot. Turning his head to the side, he saw Doc gazing back and realized the extent of his relief when he felt his heart squeeze at the sight of him.

"Doc… whoa. Y'look like hell." He gave a wincing, apologetic smile after a moment. "Sorry."

"I bet I do. Hell, thanks to you, I was lucky if I got three hours of sleep a night."

There was no heat in his answer, though; no real frustration. And for a moment as they sat there taking in the others' presence and searching each others' faces tiredly, Mac thought he saw Doc's eyes darken and gleam wet.

Oh.

The kid felt a different sort of ache clutch fiercely at his chest, the beginnings of a clumsy, half-formed apology sticking in his throat. It must have shown in his face because Louis was suddenly leaning forward in his chair and slugging his shoulder lightly, his voice lower, gentler.

"C'mon, son, I'd rather miss a few weeks than not know how y'doin'." He gave him another nudge. "Now how y'feelin', huh?"

Mac mustered an uneasy, distracted smile. "Ain't too bad for havin' a hose stickin' in my ribs."

Doc offered a sympathetic look. He bent in his chair, rustling through a plastic bag. "Now hold on, I got somethin' for you. A couple things."

"What's that?"

A single page of a newspaper was handed to him. "The front page from a few days ago. Read it."

"The whole thing?"

Doc laughed at Mac's reluctance. "Just check it out, okay?"

Squinting, the kid scanned the front page spread, skimming through its neat, tiny text.

_Last night at the WVBA Stadium, tensions were especially high in the wake of the diminutive Little Mac's vicious, unprovoked attack on a self-proclaimed Super Macho Man fan. But Jeremy Owens, the supermodel, celebrity, and bodybuilder extraordinaire better known as Super Macho Man, suffered an embarrassing defeat to the 'trigger-happy', seventeen year old Bronxite._

_Super Macho Man? Many now beg to differ._

Mac blinked and pursed his lips, glancing up and into his trainer's expectant face. His gaze returned to the article.

"Iunno, I feel… kinda bad for him." He found himself saying, a part of himself wishing he got some sense of satisfaction out of it.

_You shouldn't_, Doc thought grimly. _He sure as hell didn't give a damn about you._ "It's eatin' you, huh?"

Mac sighed. "I'm still kinda worried 'bout what people back home will say." His eyes locked on his trainer, achingly trusting. "What's gonna happen to my career? No one's gonna wanna fight me if I got a bad rep."

Doc laced his fingers together over his lap. "Now listen here. If I know the WVBA as well as I think I do, they won't care about whatever trouble you get into. Think that Aran Ryan sucker hasn't messed around? What matters most to them is entertainment. That's just the way it is." He added, a little ruefully.

The World Video Boxing Association was the internationally-recognized organization that had legitimized a different flavour of boxing (so they had called it), and opened up a world of possibility for Mac. Regardless of the statements they made regarding their organization's mission, affirming that they offered new and old, inexperienced and seasoned boxers equal opportunity in their professional debut, their interest first and foremost was to entertain the masses and pull in a nice profit. To this end they sneakily laxened and adjusted some traditional rules, the most dramatic changes being that matches were restricted to only three rounds at the most and that weight divisions were scrapped for more thrilling – and more dangerous bouts.

Few boxing purists dared to call it a circus. Not when ferocious boxers the likes of Mr. Sandman had climbed the ranks with hunger in their eyes and turned their sights to the championship belts of other organizations.

"You brought down Macho, son!" Pausing, Doc searched Mac's eyes for a flicker of recognition and saw it, letting out a breath he didn't know he had been holding and chuffing a laugh in relief. "Remember this moment! You'll get your shot at Mr. Sandman, don't you worry."

"Y'think so?"

"I'd bet on it."

Mac's lips pulled into a closed, gentle smile. "…Thanks, Doc."

"Y'know, " Doc drew in closer, the legs of his chair squeaking against the floor. "When y'grow older, you gonna realize that there ain't nothing that matters more than what y'got in here." He tapped his own chest.

"Heart?" Mac suggested, hopefully.

The answer earned him a chuckle.

"No – well, yeah, that too. But that's not what I meant." The man's expression sobered. "I'm talkin' about self respect. No kind a' respect matters more. If you got that strong belief in yourself, that strong respect for yourself and who you are? ... Ain't nobody or nothin' in this world that's gonna touch you. It takes an iron hide, this sport, an' not only for takin' punches. People're always gonna talk flack about you - heck, in life too, an' for petty reasons. It ain't easy. It ain't fair, remember?"

Taking hold of one of Mac's hands, he tucked his fingers in and clapped a hand over the fist, clasping it tight for a moment.

"But you gotta learn t'stand up. Now I don' mean punchin' nobody in the face - - but takin' it. Keep rollin' with it an' don't let 'em push you around. Show 'em they can't take you down."

Silent, Mac hung on his every word, breaking eye-contact only as a nurse drifted into the room to see if anything was needed.

"But these are jus' words, Mac." Doc continued, when she had left. "Just tellin' you don't mean as much. Y'got to know it... y'gotta feel it. You'll know it when you know it."

Gaze turning inward, the kid nodded faintly, giving the words time to sink in.

"Hey –" Doc said with fresh self-awareness. Mac looked up suddenly. "How many motivational speeches have I given you this week, son? I think I should start chargin' you for my advice."

"Geez, iunno…" He let out a sharp breath, grinning sheepishly. "Three? Wait … are we countin' this one or not?"

The man reached over and gave Mac a gentle nudge on the chin with his knuckles. "It don't matter; they're all on me, anyway. I know what this all feels like... I _was_ young like you, once."

Mulling over the entirety of Mac's career for the umpteenth time and reeling at how far they'd come through pain and practice, it's all he could do to shake his head in incredulous amusement. "...You just don' know when to quit, do ya?"

Mac smiled cheekily and it was the happiest Doc had seen him in days. "No, sir."

In two words, the pent-up, strangling fear and stress of harried nerves melted away and it was a miraculous feeling, letting go. A hearty laugh surged from Doc's belly, on and on until tears – _joyful_ tears - sprung to his eyes, the sound filling the room with warmth and renewed hope. And a moment after it faded - a moment spent in companionable, thoughtful silence - Mac felt like for the first time in a long time, everything was right with the world.


End file.
